#Distribution Prep

[garvescope]

The Distribution Checklist You Need Before You Ever Hit Record

Here’s a horror story too many indie filmmakers have lived through: You’ve wrapped your shoot. You’ve locked the edit. You’re celebrating your final color pass. Then you get the distribution offer. And with it? A deliverables checklist that makes your stomach drop. The frame rate is wrong. You didn’t record split-track audio. Your music cue sheets are incomplete. You never got signed…

[orcelito]

Realized I'm not gonna see my kitties for almost a WEEK

I already miss them 😭😭😭😭

[deadsetobsessions]

Duke flicked a hand, light illuminating the abandoned halls of a battered and partially destroyed university building.

A satellite campus of Gotham University and in collaboration with Gotham State Univeristy, Gotham West had been a respected institution of education. Until it fostered and was destroyed by a number of its alumni, such as Jonathan Crane and Ivy, that is. Now, the university was prime playing grounds for the likes of low level criminals and the occasional drug kingpin. They were chasing one now.

“Thanks for helping out, kid.” Jason strode beside him, domino mask firmly on. He wasn’t going as Red Hood tonight, unwilling to spook the kingpin into hiding. He was no less heavily armored, despite the lack of helmet. “Did ya know your eyes glow?”

“Yeah. Scared myself shitless getting water in the middle of the night.” Duke replied, his suit’s stealth mode firmly hiding the main parts of his golden armor.

“Yours glow too, Red.” Barbara remarked, updating their masks with the floor plans. Jason snorted. Barbara had a way of just knowing these things. “Head left.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s not the pit though. They just do that.

They swung left, dropping into a crouch as they heard murmured voices. Along with their footsteps, the voices faded as they left. Duke and Jason seamlessly followed.

“Really? Why?”

“Dunno, ain’t like being a zombie come with a manual.”

Duke grinned. “Pretty sure it does. Die. Wander around and go ‘blehhhh.’ Move slow like you’re old. Eat brains.”

“Are you calling me old?”

“If the boots fit,” Duke smiled smugly. “Plus, look, you’re already going grey.”

Jason huffed and got Duke away from the crumbling railing by playfully shoving him. “Little shit.”

“I noticed you didn’t deny eating brains. Or being slow.”

Jason ignored him. “Seriously, I don’t know. They just do that.”

“I’ve noticed it’s when you’re in a life threatening situation.” Barbara said, dropping information like it wouldn’t alter the world around Jason. “Also, group of people ahead. Looks like they’re planing distribution lines to East End and Gotham Prep.”

“Oh ew, they’d definitely have customers there,” Duke grimaced.

“I’ll let you get the last shot, but you also have to write the report.” Jason offered slyly.

“No way!”

“Well, I’m not doing it. And you get away with more.” He reasoned.

“Says the guy who literally got away with murder.”

“I’m not doing it. You do it.”

“No, you!”

“No, you!”

“No, you!”

“No, you!”

“No, you!”

“Boys.”

“Sorry, Oracle.” They chorused. Chastised but sending each other irate looks like Barbara couldn’t see it through their masks, Duke shoved Jason in as bait with a snicker and took to the roofs. Jason flipped him the bird and kicked the doors down.

“¡Hola, motherfuckers!” Jason shouted, going straight for a head punch. “It’s clobbering time!”

Amongst the erupting brawl, Duke surprised dropped three men before landing next to Jason, uppercutting a goon to interrupt him from nearly bludgeoning Jason with a bat.

“Dude, you’re so lame. Clobbering time?”

Jason shoved him again— making a flung knife miss Duke’s throat by a few inches— and elbowed another man in the throat.

“What else would you call it??”

“Not that!” Duke blinded a guy and punched him in the face.

“It’s classic!”

Duke flew up to knee a thrown goon in the face. Jason gave him a thumbs up as he dodged a shot.

“It’s outdated!”

“Fuck you!”

[ssahotchnerr]

you see when you did a fic abt reader getting a lil clingy when she’s tired , can we pls have it w aaron instead. like they’re all on the jet and he just puts a hand on her knee or keeps on giving her forehead kisses every second, or even he gets so tired to the point he falls asleep w his head on her shoulder

sleep deprived

clingy aaron my beloved cw; bau!reader, fluff <3

After many years of practice, Aaron's rather proud of his resilience to remain awake and alert despite extreme fatigue.

Some cases called for either little or no sleep at all. Was it his favorite thing to do? No - it knocked his body completely off schedule, worsened with time spent on the West Coast. Had he been exhausted? Absolutely. But he could ignore the feeling well, working just as diligently as if he had gotten a full night's rest.

Frequent helpings of caffeine also assisted.

But when a case resolved and the urgency was dismissed - it was like a switch flipped in his brain. His mind and body knew before he could fully process it, and he felt it. Sleep deprived brain fog, a newly significant heaviness to his body, more irritable if certain buttons were pushed.

He couldn't wait to be home. He couldn't wait to be in the comfort of bed. He couldn't wait for you to be at his side, secure and close in sleep.

Each one of those thoughts correlated to each heavy step as he trudged up the jet's stairs, his eyes latching onto you immediately upon entry.

You were stationed at the kitchenette, head down as you prepared your favorite soothing, nighttime tea.

A wave of affection rippled through him; simply seeing you made him long for you desperately, although you were near and already his. The love he felt for you was unfathomable already, but in a sleep deprived state, it was enhanced greatly. He wanted - no, had to be as close as possible, to be entirely consumed by you.

After storing his go-bag, he swiftly (and slightly clumsily) moved behind you, hands finding your waist easily.

"Hey," you greeted, steeping your tea. Your voice was soft, and he could hear the faint smile in your voice.

"Hey," Aaron echoed in a mumble, his hands sliding forward from your hips to your abdomen. "How are you."

You hummed gently, leaning back to lightly touch your head to his, closing the tiny gap that separated the two of you. "Better now that we're going home."

With your back to his chest, you felt his agreeable chuckle shake through him.

"You want a cup?"

"No, I'm okay." Truthfully, he was certain he would fall asleep before the rim of the mug touched his lips. His head turned, pressing a long kiss to your temple, speaking into it, "Thank you though."

His lips lingered while you finished prepping your tea, adding light honey and lemon. With you in his arms, matching your evenly distributed breaths, Aaron's hold wasn't only to hold you, but to keep him standing upright. The lights on the jet had already been dimmed, as everyone settled down for the red eye flight, so that wasn't helping his tiredness either. He was just as comfortable as if he were in his bed at home.

You felt him nodding off. His arms - unknown to him, as he thought otherwise - were loosening, his figure even swaying the smallest amount. You hurried, knowing he probably wouldn't claim his seat without you at his side. And when you made your way over, Aaron followed like a lost puppy, his fingers grasping onto the back of your shirt.

Your blanket was already at your seat; after setting your tea aside, you draped it over your lap, offering half to Aaron. You even managed to pry him out of his suit jacket and tie.

His hand started out in yours, before finding home on your thigh - enjoying the comfort of contact. His fingers were splayed across the width, keeping you as close as the seats could awkwardly offer. Part of him considered persuading Reid from his usual spot, allowing the two of you a turn to lie down.

But it was Spencer's favorite spot, the rest of the team would never let him live down visibly 'cuddling', and he was too tired to move, so the regular seats would have to do.

His thumb began brushing against the fabric of your pants, the lull bringing him closer to sleep. He placed a kiss on your shoulder, then your jaw, before nestling his head on your shoulder.

A faint blush trickled onto your face, feeling warm from both the tea and the open tenderness. "Aaron?"

A very drowsy, "Hm?" came from below your ear.

You simply leaned your head against his, a contentful sigh leaving you. Under the blanket, your hand rest atop his, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze.

Aaron's eyes remained closed, but a sleepy smile made its way onto his face. In the smallest of whispers, "I love you too."

[tacticalprincess]

Bro… I love your writing sm. I need another/multiple docs about the Eiffel tower between Konig and Simon.. like imagine y’all are roommates and just causally fuck every weekend and get drunk lmao.

Need that in my life. Anyway. Have a great day and stay hydrated 🫶🏻

simon x afab!f!reader x könig

you’re all pleasantly buzzed and warm from distributing a bottle around between the three of you — though they may have skipped their turns a few times when you weren’t paying attention — and somehow it became your turn to be passed around their broad laps. they already have to restrain themselves from being all over you sober, but the more alcohol that passes through their system, the greedier their hands tend to get. not that you mind, your inhibitions lowered meant feeling especially touchy and horny, letting yourself bask in the feeling of being groped by and made out with by your two doting, giant men.

“i got first tonight,” simon heaves out, smiling at the way your kiss-swollen lips trail after his, the way you mewl cutely at the loss of contact. he pats your hip. “gotta break ‘er in and all that. ‘s been a while, hasn’t it, sweetheart?”

“you got first the last three times. don’t need you boring her to sleep before i get to her again.” könig brushes your hair out of your face gingerly, heart clenching at the way you drunkenly preen into his touch. “not that she’d mind.”

“think the phrase you’re lookin’ for is ‘wearin’ her out’…”

they’re talking about you like you’re not there, and it really should be degrading, but you like the fact that you can turn your brain off when they’re around, trusting them to take care of you, making all the decisions while you sit pretty and take what they decide to give you. at least until their arguing gets to be too annoying, and you’re forced to step in and put them in check.

“why don’t we ask her?” könig’s suggestion makes you tune back into their conversation.

simon hums in agreement like he just remembered you could talk. “who would you like first, darling?”

“mmm.“ you search your muddled brain for a coherent response under the overwhelming pressure from their undivided attention. the smell of strong liquor on their breath and heady musk radiating from their bodies clouds your senses, warming your abdomen. you glance between the two of them, vision a little fuzzy around the edges, and gasp suddenly, “why not both?”

they both raise a curious brow at each other. “bit late to prep you for anal, baby. gotta give us a notice.” an endeared laugh pushes its way out of simon’s throat.

“no… both of you here.” you giggle, moving his large hand from your hip to cup your mound through your panties.

könig curses in german under his breath, dizzy with how much of his blood rushes south as he adjusts his pants.

“standby, soldier.” simon shoots a warning glance at him like talking down a tiger ready to pounce. he looks down at where your hands connect just under your womb. “this little cunt can barely fit me, what makes you think she can take both of us at the same time?”

the gravity of your request doesn’t quite register for you as you shrug a shoulder, smiling. “‘m a big girl, si. you won’t break me.”

“sounds like a challenge, maus.”

[nahoney22]

Liar Liar (Part 1/?)

🫧 Part One - 79's

🫧 Pairings: Commander Fox X Female Reader.

🫧 word count: 5k.

🫧 Plot: When you meet a so-called clone named Whisky at 79's, you're a bit flustered with the impression he left on you. Little did you know that you were now caught in a web of Commander Fox’s lie.

🫧 Chapter Warnings: Safe for work, alcohol consumption, lying, teasing, flirting, Corrie guard antics, Fox is a little shit, grumpy. AFAB Female reader.

🫧 Authors note: Hi! So this is going to be a short story about reader and Commander Fox. Be prepared for lots of flirting, angst, crying, fun and eventual smutty goodness! Enjoy. I've also posted most parts to my AO3 account (NaHoney).

“You gonna join us tonight?”

You glance up from your work, eyebrows raised. “And that would be…?”

“79’s, of course!” Thire grins, slinging his arm around one of his brothers. “We need a break.”

“He’s right. I can’t remember the last time I had a night just to relax,” Hound chimes in, leaning casually against the wall, his helmet tucked under one arm. 

They look at you expectantly as you mull it over. You rarely went out—especially not with the boys—but the idea of unwinding at 79’s didn’t sound half bad. Besides, your friend Pia was working tonight, and catching up with her had been long overdue.

“Sure,” you say, nodding as you distribute the last of the data files onto the desks for tomorrow’s shift. “I’ll be there.”

The troopers exchange approving smiles. “Should we ask Fox?” Hound wonders aloud, glancing at his brothers before shifting his gaze to you.

“Why bother?” Stone snorts from the doorway. “He always says no.”

You roll your eyes but can’t deny the truth in Stone’s words. You’d overheard Fox turn down countless invitations. 

Anyway, he didn’t seem the type to let loose, especially with how rowdy the boys could get after a few rounds of Corellian ale. 

“I don’t see the harm in asking him again,” you reply, shrugging. “But yeah, he’ll probably say no.”

They leave you with the task. You finish tidying up, making sure everything is prepped for tomorrow. The clock ticks closer to 1900 hours, but Fox still hasn’t returned from the Senate. Deciding you’ve waited long enough, you gather your things and head for the door.

Just as you hit the button to open it, the door hisses apart, and you nearly collide with the broad red armor of Commander Fox.

“Oh!” You step back quickly, almost tripping over your own feet. “There you are.”

Fox enters, his usual confident stride noticeably subdued. He moves to his desk, his back to you, shoulders tense beneath his armor.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” you continue, hovering uncertainly near the doorway.

 A weary and almost impatient sigh filters through his modulator. “And why’s that?”

Something’s off. You’re used to his abrupt tone, but tonight there’s a heaviness to it that makes you hesitate with your answer 

“Everything okay, Commander?” Your tone softens, concerned as you ignore his question.

“Fine,” he replies curtly, glancing over his shoulder. When he sees the worry etched on your face, he sighs again, this time sounding more human than soldier. “It’s just been a long day.”

You offer a small, sympathetic smile. “Yeah, I can imagine. You usually don’t finish this late at the Senate.”

He turns fully to face you, leaning back against his desk. His arms cross over his chest. “I’ve finished later,” he says dryly. “Is everything sorted for the morning?” He then asks, changing topic swiftly.

“Yes, Commander. Everyone has their files, and I put through an order for more supplies.”

“Such as?” He presses.

You hold your tongue and maintain a neutral expression. Back to his grumpy self, it seems.

“Extra medpacs, ammo, and rations. They should arrive by 0900 hours,” you list off, trying to sound efficient and competent, even though his scrutiny makes your blood simmer.

Fox nods absently, his visor fixed on you. Then he starts rattling off a checklist of additional tasks. Everything from inventory updates, personnel reports, security drills. You bite back the urge to roll your eyes, wondering why he insists on making everything harder than it needs to be.

“Like I said, Commander,” you interrupt gently but firmly when he finishes, “I’ve taken care of everything. For you.”

The ‘for you’ slips out sharper than intended, and you can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you see his posture stiffen slightly. Turning away, you head for the door, masking your irritation with a forced calm. Just before you step out, you hesitate, glancing back.

“I stayed because the boys wanted to see if you’d join us at 79’s tonight. I’ll tell them you’re busy.” 

Because ‘busy’ always sounds better than ‘tired’.

⋅⋅───⊱༺  🦊 ༻⊰───⋅⋅

“There she is!” Stone cheers the moment he spots you, raising his glass in a mock toast.

You grin as you weave through the packed club, the bass of music thudding in your chest, lights flickering in shades of blue and violet. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and alcohol. Typical 79’s.

As you reach the group, a chorus of nods and smiles greet you. Thire, Hound, and a few other Corrie Guards stand clustered together, already a few drinks in.

“Lookin’ good.” Hound nods appreciatively, earning a playful jab from you but accepting the compliment regardless. It’s not often you dress up, after all and the shirt you bought last month was too cute not to wear.

“Surprised to see you all behaving,” you tease, eyeing Thire’s drink before shifting to the man himself. “Especially you. No table dancing tonight?”

Thire groans, rubbing his head like the memory physically pains him. “I thought we all agreed not to bring that up.”

“Too hard to forget.” You smirk. “Especially the part where you fell flat on your face.”

Hound chokes on his drink, while Stone grins over the rim of his own. “I swear, the look on his face right before he went down—priceless.”

Thire mutters something about betrayal under his breath but smirks anyway.

“So, I take it the Commander isn’t coming?” Hound then asks, shifting the conversation as he leans closer.

You bite back a smart remark, still holding a minor grudge from your last interaction with Fox. Instead, you just shake your head. “Nope. He was really busy. Lots of files to go through.”

“Surprise, surprise,” Stone mutters, downing another sip.

You nod along, but despite your irritation, you can’t shake the image of Fox’s slumped posture, the exhaustion practically radiating off him. Still, you push the thought aside and excuse yourself, heading toward the bar.

Sliding onto a stool, you drum your fingers against the bartop, scanning the crowd until a familiar voice breaks through the noise.

“There’s my girl!” Pia grins, practically launching herself over the bar to pull you into a quick hug. “It’s been forever!”

“Oh, I know,” you sigh, grateful for the warmth of her presence. “Work’s been eating up my life. I haven’t had time for anything.”

“Tell me about it,” Pia groans, throwing a rag over her shoulder. “I’ve covered four extra shifts this week. Four! I basically live here.”

“That’s rough.”

“I wouldn’t mind if the pay was half-decent,” she grumbles, before quickly turning to serve an impatient trooper waving a handful of credits. She hands him his drink with a pointed look before spinning back to you. “Anyway, let’s get you a drink.”

As she sets a fruity, colorful concoction in front of you, you instinctively reach for your credits, but Pia swats your hand away with the tiny umbrella meant for your drink.

“Absolutely not.” She tuts, popping the umbrella in your glass for extra flourish.

You arch a brow. “You sure?”

“Of course.” She’s already dashing off to serve someone else before you can protest, so you just shake your head with a laugh.

“Don’t expect a tip, then,” you joke.

“Wouldn’t expect one from you anyway!” Pia calls over her shoulder, grinning.

You take a sip, humming in satisfaction. Perfect, as always. As the straw hangs lazily from your lips, you scan the bar, looking for any more familiar faces—though, ironically, in a room full of clones, everyone looks familiar.

Then you spot him.

Across the bar, a clone sits alone, elbow propped up as he rests his head in his hand. He looks… tired. Maybe bored. Maybe just hoping no one will bother him. But there’s something about him that catches your attention.

Salt-and-pepper curls frame his face, the dim light emphasising the lines along his forehead. He wears his blacks, leaving his battalion unclear. But you can’t shake the feeling that you should know who he is.

Before you can think too hard about it, Pia appears in your line of sight, snapping you back to reality.

“So, how is it?” she asks, wiggling her brows.

You blink. “How’s what?”

“The drink, duh .”

“Oh.” You flush slightly, realising you’d been too busy staring at the mystery trooper. “Yeah, it’s great. Thanks.”

Pia beams at the praise before suddenly flipping off a customer who’s been aggressively clicking his fingers for service. “ I said I’ll be with you in a minute!” she snaps, before turning back to you. “So, who’s your company tonight?”

“The Corrie Guards, of course.”

Pia gives you a skeptical look. “Uh-huh. Well, do me a favor and make sure Thire stays off the tables this time.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Already warned him.”

As Pia busies herself with another round of orders, your gaze naturally drifts back to the clone across the bar. For a split second, you swear he meets your eyes, but Pia keeps unintentionally blocking your view.

“Hey! When am I gonna get my drink?” the same customer whines, earning a spectacular eye-roll from Pia.

“When I’m done talking to my friend .” She smiles sweetly, almost menacingly.

“You’re not even serving her anymore! You’re just chatting!”

Pia glares at him. He promptly shrinks back in his seat.

You take another sip of your drink before nodding toward the lone clone. “Say, do you know who that is?”

Pia grins knowingly. “Obviously. That’s—”

“Listen, lady, I just wanna get a drink and—”

“Kriff, fine ! Fine! ” Pia throws her hands up, stomping over to the persistent patron.

You sigh as she gets pulled away, your curiosity about the mystery trooper left frustratingly unanswered.

You try not to keep stealing glances at him, but there’s just something about him. It’s distracting. 

Maybe it’s the salt-and-pepper streaking through his curls, maybe it’s the way his shoulders hunch, like he’s carrying the weight of an entire day on them. He’s got that whole brooding, don’t-talk-to-me aura, which—ironically—only makes you more curious.

And, apparently, more reckless.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you grab a napkin from the dispenser and fish a pen out of your purse. You hesitate, pen hovering over the flimsy paper. What do you even write? Something casual? Flirty? Mysterious?

You roll your eyes at yourself—definitely overthinking it. Finally, you scribble down:

You look lonely. I can fix that.

As soon as you read it back, you cringe. Too forward? Too suggestive? Maybe you should—

Nope. No time for second-guessing. You fold the napkin before you can change your mind. Pia is still swamped, barely keeping up with the sea of 212th troopers ordering drinks, but thankfully, a server droid hums by.

Perfect.

“Hey,” you beckon it over, glancing toward the clone across the bar. “Can you take this to him?”

The droid gives a curt beep. “That is not my function.”

“Oh, come on,” you groan. “It’ll take two seconds.”

“Then do it yourself.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’ll tell Pia you need rewiring.”

The droid snatches the napkin without another word, wheeling off toward the clone.

Your stomach knots as you watch it place the note in front of him, then—completely unhelpfully—point directly at you. Great. You quickly avert your eyes, suddenly regretting everything.

But you still sneak a glance from the corner of your eye.

The clone straightens slightly, unfolds the napkin. Reads it. Pauses. Then, without a flicker of reaction, folds it back up and finishes his drink.

And then… he stands.

Your stomach drops. Oh. That’s it, then. He doesn’t even look your way as he walks off, disappearing into the crowd.

You exhale, a mix of relief and secondhand embarrassment washing over you. You swirl the ice in your glass and mutter to yourself, “Well. Won’t be doing that again.”

A voice speaks up behind you.

“It worked, didn’t it?”

You turn on your stool, and—oh.

The clone from across the bar is now standing right in front of you. Tall. Broad. Close.

Heat creeps up your neck. Your mouth suddenly dry.

“…Yeah,” you manage, a little breathless. “Kind of surprised, actually.”

“How come?” He gestures to the empty stool beside you, waiting for your nod before he sits.

“You looked like a man who didn’t want to be bothered.” You take a sip of your drink, hoping it steadies you.

“And yet, you were bold enough to send a note,” he muses, lips curving just slightly. “Very sweet.”

You giggle, shrugging as you set your glass down with a soft clink. “You don’t know if you don’t try.”

His amusement lingers. “Looks like it paid off.” He chuckles, then tilts his head. “Can I get you another drink?”

“I’d like that, thank you.”

He signals for another round, ordering one for himself, too.

“So,” you begin, tilting your head, “I haven’t seen you around before. What battalion are you with?”

The clone pauses just a fraction too long before answering, “Coruscant Guard.”

Your brows lift. “Oh? Me too! I feel like I would’ve noticed you… what’s your name?”

Another brief hesitation. Then: “Whisky.”

You arch a brow. “Whisky?”

“That’s right.” He nods, taking a deeper sip of his drink. There’s a flicker of nerves in his expression, but you don’t press. “Big whisky fan.”

You chuckle. “Fair enough. Cool name.”

“And yours?”

You offer your name along with your hand, flashing a bright, playful grin.

For a moment, he just looks at you. Then, he places his hand in yours. His palm is warm, his grip firm but careful.

“Lovely name,” he murmurs.

His voice is smooth, just a little too low, and it sends a surprising shiver up your spine. There’s something about the way he holds your hand—like he’s not sure if he should, but doesn’t want to let go, either. The earlier nervousness is gone, replaced by a small, amused smirk.

And you?

You’re intrigued.

Still, you release his hand before yours can get clammy. “So, the Corrie Guard?” You lean back slightly, studying him. “I still feel like I should’ve seen you around.”

He clears his throat, taking another long sip. “I’m not exactly frontline.”

That explains it. “What department?”

“Mechanic.”

That really explains it. You nod, feeling a little sheepish. “Ah, that’s probably why. I love working with my boys in red, though. They’re good to me.”

“Good,” he says, then hesitates. “So, uh… what’s the Commander like?”

You blink. “Fox?”

He nods.

You smirk, turning away slightly as you consider your answer. A hundred words come to mind—moody, buzzkill, abrasive, miserable, exhausted…

“Grumpy,” you settle on, swirling your drink. “Big grump.”

He chuckles. “Can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, but he is.” You huff, thinking back to earlier that night. “But… he works hard, so sometimes the grumpiness is excused.”

“Sure,” Whisky nods, idly swiping at the condensation on his glass. He hesitates again. “He… does he treat you okay?”

You arch a brow, amused. “Why? You planning to put in a word for me?”

The teasing is lighthearted, but Whisky seems oddly stiff about it. You wave it off before he can dwell. “He’s okay,” you say simply. “He just gets under my skin sometimes. I don’t think he means to.” You sigh, taking another sip before turning back to him. “You know him?”

He shakes his head, then drinks. “Nah. Just heard he can be a little hard on people.”

You hum. “You got that right.”

You don’t notice the way Whisky shifts in his seat, rubbing a hand through his hair, his eyes dropping into his glass. He’s quiet, thoughtful—until you break the silence again.

“Actually,” you say, warmth from the alcohol making you bolder, “I know a secret about him.”

He raises a brow. “You do?”

You giggle and scoot closer, lowering your voice. “I’ll tell you but you have to keep it between us.” You hold up your hand, pinky extended. “And all my promises have to be pinky sweared.”

Whisky stares at you for a second, caught somewhere between surprise and amusement. Then, with a small smirk, he hooks his pinky around yours. “Alright. Spill.”

“So, about a year ago, I was in the office, sorting files or whatever. I came across one of his, and being the amazing worker I am, I marched right up to him at his desk and dropped it in front of him.” You start grinning, the memory as vivid as if it happened yesterday.

“And you know what he said?”

Whisky watches you closely, his gaze flickering to your lips as you lean in, your voice dropping secretively. 

Closer, closer, closer…

“No,” he murmurs.

“Nothing.”

His brows draw together. “Nothing?”

“Nothing,” you repeat, eyes alight with mischief. “Because he was snoring under his bucket.”

There’s a moment of silence followed by laughter. You tip your head back, giggling as you wipe a tear from your eye, and Whisky laughs along with you, shaking his head. It’s not even that funny, but the irony of it is too good.

“He always tells us to work harder, no time for rest,” you say, rolling your eyes. “And there he was, sleeping on the job. And it wasn’t even the first time! He sleeps upright, so it looks like he’s just watching us. But nope. Out cold.”

“So he’s a slacker?” Whisky smirks.

You shake your head. “No, not a slacker. He works hard. Really hard.”

“But you didn’t wake him?” He eyes you curiously.

“Nah. He barely gets any rest as it is, so I let him sleep.” You glance at Whisky, smirking. “Besides… it’s kinda cute.”

Whisky watches you closely, his lips twitching at your laughter, but his eyes seem to linger on you a moment longer than necessary. He swirls his drink idly, then asks, “You think he’d be mad if he knew you caught him slacking?”

You shrug, still grinning. “Maybe. But what’s he gonna do? Fire me? I know he’s my boss but those lot won’t function without me.” You laugh. “Besides, I doubt he gets much rest, so I let him sleep. Figured he needed it.”

There’s something in Whisky’s expression that shifts—just slightly. His fingers drum against his glass, his posture relaxing, but you catch a flicker of something you can’t quite place. It’s gone as soon as it appears, replaced by that same amused smirk.

“Didn’t take you for the sentimental type,” he muses.

You roll your eyes but smile.“It’s not sentimental. Just… practical.”

“You like him,” he says. It’s not quite a question, more of an observation.

You hum, tilting your head. “I admire him,” you correct, swirling your drink. “Fox works harder than anyone I know. He doesn’t just give orders—he takes the weight of everything on his shoulders. Every mission, every casualty, every prisoner, every mistake. And I don’t think anyone really sees that.”

Whisky watches you carefully, listening.

You sigh, resting your elbow on the bar. “I just wish he was… a little nicer, sometimes. He’s got a good squad. I mean, the guys look up to him. I think if he let himself relax, let himself be one of them instead of always keeping himself separate, they’d follow him even harder. But he never does.” You exhale, shaking your head. “I dunno. It’s not my business, really. Just somethin’ I think about.”

Whisky is quiet for a second, “Maybe he doesn’t know how,” he says finally.

You pause. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Maybe.”

A small smirk tugs at his lips, but it’s softer this time. “You’re a bit of a softie, huh?”

You scoff, playfully nudging him with your elbow “Shut up.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s not a bad thing.” He takes a sip of his nearly empty drink, eyes flicking over you. “You care about your squad.”

“Of course I do,” you say, as if it’s obvious. “I spend all my time with them. They’re like family.”

Whisky hums, contemplative. He watches you for a moment longer before he shifts in his seat, leaning a little closer, his arm brushing against yours.

“So,” he says, voice dipping lower, more conspiratorial, “if Fox is the grumpiest, who’s your favourite?”

You huff a laugh. “Oh, come on, I can’t answer that.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I pick one, I’ll have to deal with the rest of them whining about it for the next month.” You shake your head. “I’m not walking into that trap.”

Whisky grins. “Smart.”

You take a sip of your drink, then tilt your head at him. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You’re in the Guard, too. You’ve gotta have a favourite.”

He hesitates for a fraction of a second—so quick you almost miss it. Then, he smirks. “Can’t say I’ve thought about it.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “Liar.”

He chuckles, but doesn’t argue. Instead, he taps the side of his glass. “Alright, fine. Who gives you the most trouble?”

You groan dramatically. “Thorn . Hands down.”

Whisky raises a brow. “That bad?”

“He’s so smug,” you complain, exasperated. “He knows he can get away with murder because he’s one of Fox’s best. And he loves rubbing it in my face. I’d also argue Stone because he’s cheeky but Thorn can be devious if he wants to be.”

Whisky chuckles. “Sounds like a menace.”

“Oh, he is ,” you confirm. “But I can’t even be mad about it, because he’s also stupidly good at his job. So I just have to suffer .”

He leans in close. “Poor thing.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t patronise me.”

“I wouldn’t dare.” His voice is smooth, teasing, and— Maker , his eyes are intense when they settle on you like that.

Your breath catches slightly, but you mask it with another sip of your drink. The air between you has shifted—still playful, but heavier now, charged with something unspoken.

You clear your throat. “So, Whisky,” you say, changing the subject. “Tell me something about you .”

His smirk lingers, but there’s a flicker of something else behind it. “What do you wanna know?”

You tap your fingers against the bar, pretending to think. “Mmm… what’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever done while on duty?”

Whisky chuckles, shaking his head. “Now that’s a dangerous question.”

“Oh, come on,” you nudge him. “I won’t tell.”

He eyes you for a moment, considering. Then, he leans in slightly, voice lowering just enough to send a shiver up your spine.

“Alright,” he murmurs, “but if I tell you… you owe me another secret in return.”

You grin. “Deal.”

And just like that, the night stretches on and the hours slip away without either of you noticing.

⋅───⊱༺ 🦊 ༻⊰───⋅

It starts with secrets, little things at first. Just small confessions that wouldn’t ruin you if they got out. 

You tell him about the time you ‘accidentally’ shredded a report you were supposed to file, and how you spent half the day trying to piece it back together before finally giving up and blaming it on a faulty data pad. Or how you once snuck into the supply room after hours because Thorn had been too busy to eat, and you stole rations for both of you under the pretense of ‘inventory control.’

Whisky listens with quiet amusement, the occasional smile flickering across his lips as he watches you talk. He’s not a big sharer. His own stories are vague and kind of always deflecting back to you. But when you mention your upbringing, your life before the Republic and the war, he leans in slightly, genuinely intrigued.

“You ever think about what comes after?” you ask at one point.

His brow furrows slightly. “After?”

You nod. “Yeah. Like… what happens when the war ends? What do you want to do?”

For the first time, Whisky hesitates—not the way he had before, when he seemed like he was choosing his words carefully, but like he’s genuinely never considered it. 

“You don’t have to answer,” you say quickly, suddenly feeling bad for asking as he stares into his drink.

“No, it’s not that.” His voice is quiet. “I just… don’t know.”

The admission sits heavy between you, and before you can say anything else, he shifts the conversation.

“What about you?”

You exhale, leaning back against the bar. “Dunno.” You smile a little, but it’s laced with something soft and wistful. “I’d love to travel. See what’s out there, you know? Maybe settle somewhere quiet. Own a little shop or something.”

He studies you. “You’d leave Coruscant?”

You huff a small laugh. “Wouldn’t you?”

He doesn’t answer.

The music has quieted now, the heavy bass that once thrummed beneath your feet nothing more than a distant pulse. The strobe lights have stopped their restless dance, leaving the room bathed in the softer glow of overhead fixtures. It’s only then that you realise most of the patrons have left.

You turn back to Whisky, surprised to find him watching you. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something quiet and intense.

“What?” you ask, tilting your head.

“You’re really beautiful.”

The words catch you off guard. You blink, lips parting slightly before you shake your head, laughing softly. “You don’t know me.”

“Do I have to?”

You frown slightly, not in offense but in confusion. “How can you find a person beautiful if you don’t know them?”

Whisky exhales a small laugh, looking down briefly before meeting your gaze again. “I… you look beautiful,” he says, voice steady but soft. “And the way you talk about your family, about your squad… it’s nice.”

You watch him before smirking a touch. “You’re not too bad yourself, handsome.” Your voice is teasing, but there’s warmth beneath it, something genuine that makes his grip on his glass tighten.

He smirks however, trying to play off your compliment. “That means you think all my brothers are handsome.”

You hum in mock consideration, swirling the last of your drink. “Maybe so…” You take a slow sip, then let your eyes meet his again. “But maybe I find you the most attractive.”

There’s a shift between you, a flicker of something deeper in the way he looks at you—like he’s memorising the moment, the words, the way you say them. His lips part slightly, a breath drawn in like he’s about to say something, but then—

“Kriff.” You sit up straighter, suddenly glancing at the time. “I’ve gotta get going! If I don’t sleep tonight, I’ll be late, and the last thing I need is to miss one of Fox’s drills.”

He reacts almost instantly, standing when you do, setting his drink down. “S-sure, no problem. Do you want me to walk you home?”

“I’m taking a cab, but thank you.”

Still, he follows you out, insists on making sure you get into one safely. Outside, the night air is crisp, cool enough to make you shiver. You wrap your arms around yourself, exhaling. “Knew I should’ve brought a jacket.”

Whisky chuckles, stepping a little closer. “I could warm you up.”

The words hang between you, charged, almost daring. You tilt your head at him, amused. “Bold offer.”

He grins. “It’s there if you want it.”

A cab hovers down in front of you, and he opens the door, but you hesitate. Looking up at him, you smile softly. “It was really nice meeting you, Whisky. I hope to see you again sometime.”

There’s a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze, but he nods. “I’m sure we will. Sooner than you think.”

You don’t quite understand what he means, but there’s a thrill in the mystery of it. He holds out his hand, and you roll your eyes playfully, swatting it away. “I’m not shaking your hand goodbye.”

Before he can ask what you mean, you step closer, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. You linger for just a second, enough to feel the way he tenses, the way he barely exhales.

When you pull back, you smirk. “Goodnight, handsome.”

He inhales sharply, watching as you step into the cab. His voice is quiet, soft.

“Goodnight… beautiful.”

He stays there as your cab lifts off, watching until it’s out of sight. Then, with a deep breath, he turns—only to hear someone calling his name.

His real name.

“Fox? Fox! We didn’t know you came out tonight! Where have you been?”

Thire stumbles toward him, voice slurred, movements a little too loose. Fox rubs the back of his neck, shrugging. “I’ve been busy.”

Thire squints at him, blinking blearily. “Busy, huh?” He lets out a slow, knowing grin. “Didn’t take you for the social type, Commander .”

Fox huffs, folding his arms over his chest. “I’m not.”

His brother wobbles slightly, throwing an arm around Fox’s shoulders. “Right. So where were you?”

Fox debates answering honestly for all of two seconds before shaking his head. “None of your business.”

Thire gasps dramatically, pointing at him. “ Oh. So it’s like that ? You sneak off, disappear for hours, come back looking all—” he waves his hand at him vaguely, “— not miserable… You met someone, didn’t you?”

Fox sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Go back to the barracks, Thire.”

But his brother is relentless. “ You did! ” He stumbles back a step, laughing. “Oh, I gotta know. Who is it?”

Fox shakes his head, a rare smirk tugging at his lips. “Go. Now.”

Thire groans, rubbing his face. “Fine, fine. But I swear , if I see you all giddy at work tomorrow, I will find out.”

Fox rolls his eyes. “Go sleep it off.”

As he stumbles away, still muttering about Fox meeting someone , the Commander exhales slowly. He turns back toward the sky where your cab had disappeared, rubbing his jaw where your lips had touched his skin.

He should feel guilty. He should feel stupid for going along with it, for making up a name, for listening to you talk about him without you even knowing.

But he doesn’t. Not yet, anyway. 

Instead, he just wonders what he’ll do when he sees you again.

🦊 Part Two Here

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🦊 Or Stay Up To Date On A03

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[critterbitter]

I'm wheezing over Ingo and Litwick's dynamic jgjbjjxjsjwkfiisiq and TYNAMO FITTING INTO EMMET'S SCARF IS SOOO CUTE!! Love how you draw the little sbubby bois, their conductor themed outfits are soo freaking cute!!!

I have so many thoughts when it comes to them it’s insane. Glad you like the characterizations!

Here’s a quick one shot under the cut, as a treat for making it this far.

Emmet finds Tynamo three months before Ingo meets Litwick. Ingo has some thoughts.

Ingo and Emmet are part of a pair.

If Emmet is the fuck around and find out, then Ingo’s been relegated amused damage control. This has always been the case, right up until Emmet found tynamo. Then suddenly, it’s “wow emmet, you’re so responsible!” “Golly gee Emmet, what do you mean you don’t want to go exploring the cave systems after dark?” “Gee whizz, what do you mean curfew for your eel puppy?” “Why in Reshiram do you get to have a whole pokemon three months before we agreed to get starters, and i don’t?”

Ingo doesn’t say the last part. He’s a bitter world-weary twelve year old languishing about the unfairness of the pokestray distribution system, but he also loves his brother. Emmet found an injured tynamo in chargestone cave and decided to help— tynamo decided to stay. It’s every child’s film plot. Ingo being a grouchy gengar makes him objectively a terrible friend.

Oh dragons, is Ingo a bad brother?

“Ingo!”

Speak of the cold, and he shall enter. Ingo swings his whole body around to better brace for the flying tackle.

“Emmet!”

“I am emmet! You are sulking.”

Ingo clicks his mouth closed and tries not to sulk harder. He fails.

“You are not being verrrry convincing, brother dearest.”

“I do not have any idea what you are going on about,” Ingo’s traitorous mouth blurts. “Be convinced I love you and am not planning dastardly plots.”

Do not think about getting a ground typed starter. Do not think about getting a ground typed starter.

Emmet shoots him a judgemental look from under the brim of his hat. Ingo glowers back, and slowly starts leaning forward, smooshing Emmet under his weight.

“Ttttell me why you look like a crushed joltik.”

“Keep this up and you are going to be the crushed joltik.”

Anyways, Emmet is becoming more bold by the day and even actively discussing electric types with the new girl in elementary prep, Elesa. Ingo thinks she’s cool, but she flinched when he blurted a once again too loud greeting so he’s… letting that cool off. They definitely don’t have anything to talk about beyond pokemon, and Emmet and her already have pokemon. Ingo feels a bit left out.

Caught in the ennui of not having a blitzle or tynamo, Ingo slips as Emmet rolls out from under him. The two go down in an ungraceful tangle of limbs.

“Tell. Me. What’s. Wrong.” Emmet gently slaps Ingo’s face like a ripe oran berry. “You want to tell me sooo badly. Ooh.”

“Emmet- aurgh. Gerroff’”

“I don’t speak denial.”

Ingo gives up. His entire body deflates. Emmet, not expecting the sudden loss of spinal infrastructure, slides sideways and knees Ingo’s lungs.

Ingo wheezes. “I’m sulking because you were crushing my spine.”

“Tell me the truth.”

Uh oh. Ingo studies Emmet’s face. It’s the same one he looks into the mirror with, but marred with concern and self consciousness. Ingo made Emmet worry. He’s not just a bad twin. He’s the worst.

“You are Emmet.”

“I am Emmet.”

“You have Tynamo.”

“Tynamo’s charging at home.”

Smart ass! Emmet knows what Ingo means. And by Emmet’s smug grin, Emmet knows too.

Ingo struggles to explain that Emmet has Tynamo, and Elesa, and… that’s only two other individuals. He is truly the worst twin in all the land. Emmet gets two new friends and Ingo’s being an infant about it.

One day, Ingo will have his own pokemon partner and team— but right now, Ingo only gets to have Emmet.

Ingo feels this is an unfair trade equivalent, but he does not want to say it in a way that sounds rude, so he stalls.

Emmet has no such prefunctures. He squints at Ingo, who avoids eye contact and squirms. “You are… jealous?” He tilts his head in visible confusion. “What?”

Ingo covers his face with his hands, defeated.

“You arrrre jealous!” Emmet cries, bewildered. “Why??”

Ingo lets out an unintelligible wheeze. Emmet remembers he still has a knee on Ingo’s chest, and hastily sits back.

“I don’t want to be jealous,” Ingo finally bursts. “I am very happy for you Emmet! You and Tynamo are a winning combination!” His voice cracks embarrassingly. Emmet doesn’t flinch at the volume, even muffled under Ingo’s palms. “I don’t want to be a bad brother being jealous.”

“You aren’t a bad brother, Ingo.”

“I am. I am angry that you found your starter and I haven’t. I’m sad I interrupted your schedule with my inane demands. I have made you feel like you did something wrong. I apologize.”

Peeking between Ingo’s fingers, Emmet’s face falls. Ingo wants to be struck by a giga impact rather than face this. He would rather be a dusty imprint. Where is Uncle Drayden’s Haxorous when you need her?

“Ingo, Ingo listen to me.” Emmet’s hands dart forward to settle Ingo’s shoulders. The pressure is grounding. Real. This is where Emmet tells Ingo he’s being stupid.

He hears Emmet exhale.

“I’m sorry.”

Wait, that doesn’t sound right. “Pardon?”

“I wanted to train Tynamo as my conductor, and I left our two-car train unmaintained.”

“Pardon??”

Emmet looks uncomfortable and sad. It makes Ingo uncomfortable and sad. “Yesterday night. When you wanted to go to the caves. For our weekly charting. I said I’d rather help Tynamo.”

Oh. Yeah, Ingo remembers that. It had stung. “You are not obligated to say yes,” he protests. “In fact, you should say no more. You always say yes.”

“Yes.”

“What did I just say.”

“No. You’re my brother. I left you out.”

Ingo slowly puts down his hands. His face still feels warm, but he feels less scared. Now he just feels embarrassed. He can’t help but let out a meek plea slip. “Don’t go where I can’t follow, Emmet. Please.”

“I would never! We are going on our pokemon journey together, yep yep. You, me, tynamo, and whoever your starter will be!”

The two sit there on the side of the dirt road. Emmet’s declaration sounds like a dangerous promise. Ingo realizes at that moment he would do anything for his brother, who’s his best friend and confidant and world, starter or no starter. He opens his mouth to tell Emmet that.

“Wwwwwait. You are trying to go back to the caves. Ingo! Are you trying to find a starter by yourself!?”

Never mind. Emmet’s gone for his soft underbelly, and Ingo’s in pain. “Emphasis on trying,” he mutters instead. The joltik are not interested in him. The local tynamo swarm fled. A curious drilbur had sniffed him once, turned up its nose, and then trundled into the wall.

“…ah.”

Nothing had felt right for Ingo— too scared, too judgemental, or too uninterested. He’s starting to accept that maybe none of the pokemon in this town area match his truth or ideals.

Emmet was quiet for a long time. He had his thinking face on, so Ingo did not interrupt. He took the time instead to look up at the sky, watching the giant puff of clouds drift by. A plume of swabloo lazily inches their way across the horizon.

A shadow falls over Ingo. Emmet dusts himself off, and helps drag his twin to his feet. The two sway, clasping hands.

“We’ll ask Uncle Drayden,” Emmet decides, and Ingo is enthralled by the sheer truth of that statement. “He’ll let us use the subway! And you can look elsewhere, for a starter who is ideal for you. Wwwwith me and Tynamo, instead of by yourself.”

“Truly?” Uncle Drayden is a scary man.

Emmet nods. It’s easy to talk to Emmet— he just says words that Ingo would spend hours ruminating on. “I am verrrry persuasive.”

“You mean staring at him from the corner until he cracks?”

“Brother, you know me so well!”

Ingo cant help but laugh. He still feels guilty and bad for feeling envious, but a world with emmet by his side is significantly less hostile. Emmet’s hand is warm in his.“Thank you!” He cheers, startling himself with his volume. “Bravo,” he tried in a quieter tone.

“Bravo!!” Emmet replies, pointedly louder. Ingo squawks as Emmet pulls him off balance. “You are my brother! We’re going to find you a starter!”

Ingo tugs back just as fiercely. “Bravo!! We are going to harass Uncle Drayden into letting us board the train!”

Emmet leans with his whole body, dragging Ingo into the fulcrum of his centrifuge. “BRAVO! YOU ARE GOING TO HELP ME WITH TYNAMO’S TRAINING!”

Ingo digs his heels in, and then stumbles. “BRAVO, I, what?”

Emmet looked distinctly patrat-esque. “We’re in this together, Ingo. No backing out now.”

Ingo thought about it long and hard. He gets to see his brother get electrocuted. But he will, also, most likely, get electrocuted.

(Tynamo is Emmet’s starter. But maybe, it can also be Ingo’s friend.)

But brother say brother do, and Ingo’s probably obligated to run damage control if Emmet decides to, say, shove a fork into an outlet for Tynamo to snack on.

(Emmet fucks around. Ingo finds out. Even two steps apart with new people between, this is the way of their world.)

“Alright,” he crumbles. When they step this time, they step in sync. “We do this. Together.” (Enjoy this? Here's the link to the rest of my rat crimes.)

[fluentmoviequoter]

Still Find You

Requested Here!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!reader

Summary: You're abducted from your coffee shop and Tim has to trust his instincts to find you before it's too late.

Warnings: abduction, torture (not graphic), violence and threats of violence, angst, mention of drug distribution and overdose, fluff and comfort

Word Count: 3.6k+ words

A/N: I ended this with lines from Still Find You by Granger Smith because it fit (and I have no control when I write).

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info

Soft jazz fills the coffee shop as you lock the door one minute after closing. You wave at the young woman walking down the sidewalk who just left after finishing her thesis in your shop.

She brought you a small gift with a note and said, “I couldn’t have finished this without you and your café.”

You haven’t opened the gift yet, but you smile because you made a difference in someone’s life. Your coffee shop resulted from chasing your dreams and hard work, and you want people to feel both comfortable and inspired when they come in. Today, you accomplished that.

After you turn off the lights in the front seating area, you pull your phone from your apron pocket and change the music playing through the speakers behind the counter to something more upbeat. You sing along with the first song as you wipe down the counter and dismantle the coffee machines to make tomorrow easier.

A loud sound makes you flinch as you prepare to enter the walk-in freezer. Turning quickly, you expect to see someone knocking on the door or a bird flying away from the glass. But there’s nothing to see. Shaking your head, you continue your nightly closing checklist and think about what you should make for dinner.

Fifteen minutes later, your shop is clean and prepped for the morning, and your apron hangs on its dedicated hook. You pull your bag over your shoulder, slide your phone into your pocket, and open the back door.

Before you step out into the small parking area you share with a few nearby business owners, a hand wraps cruelly around your upper arm. Whoever it is pulls you harshly away from your car and slams you against the brick wall behind you.

“Here,” you say, offering your bag. “That’s all I have.”

You glance up and see that it’s undoubtedly a man, large, tall, and terrifying. He’s wearing a mask, but you can hear his deep and rough voice clearly when he chuckles. He knocks your arms down, and your bag falls to the cement with a thud. The man says your full name, and you can’t stop from flinching away from him.

“That was easy,” he murmurs. “Where’s the bag?”

You shake your head, afraid but honest.

“Where is the bag?” he repeats, slow and low as he steps closer to you.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you reply.

“That’s a shame.”

He raises his right hand and signals to someone or something. You take the opportunity while he’s distracted to slip your phone from your pocket. Holding it behind your back, you take a screenshot, hoping to capture the time. You then attempt to unlock it without looking and navigate to what you hope is the camera. Tilting the phone in several directions, you tap the screen and don’t think about what will happen if you’re not getting information to pass along to the police.

A blue van approaches quickly and then stops behind your car. The man wraps his hand around your arm again, and you drop your phone to bring your other hand up to fight. You know how to defend yourself, but he’s bigger than you, you were ambushed, and you’re outnumbered. He directs you past your car, and you drop the one belonging you don’t want to lose onto the hood. As you’re pushed into the backseat and thrown back against the seat when the van begins moving again, you hope that someone finds your phone and does the right thing. If you took any pictures, they might save your life.

Tim stretches his neck to the side after he parks in his driveway. He looks around while he turns the ignition off and frowns. Pulling his phone from the center console, he presses your contact. It goes to voicemail, and he has no missed calls or messages to explain your absence. You’ve been off work for nearly an hour, and even if you stayed to clean up – because you’re too nice to your employees and let them leave early, he thinks – you should still be here by now.

Tim opens his tracking app and sees that the blue dot showing your phone’s location is steady at your shop. He tenses his jaw and restarts his truck. As he pulls back onto the road, he calls your shop, but it just rings and rings. Tim clenches his jaw, throws his phone into the passenger seat, and speeds up. He thinks something is wrong, and if it’s not, he’s going to start an argument because you know better than to worry him like this or forget your phone. You know better. And that’s why Tim reaches for his phone to call dispatch and find out if you called 911 for any reason.

Tim leaves his truck running after he parks, blocking your car in. You’re not in the car, and the lights are off in your coffee shop. He walks to the back door, ready to pound on it and hope you open it. He stops on the sidewalk when he sees something out of place. Your phone case is something he’s familiar with, and he lowers to reach for it. There’s a new crack down the middle of the screen, and the edge of your case has been scuffed. This wasn’t simply dropped.

Tim holds your phone in his left hand as he calls Angela. He gives her the facts of what he knows, letting her come to her own conclusions. She says she and Nyla will be at your shop right away, and Tim stands in place after the call disconnects. As he looks around, he doesn’t see anything else worth noting.

He leans against the brick wall, keenly aware of every breeze which moves around him. He unlocks your phone and opens the messages. No half-typed or emergency notes. No phone calls or a dialed number. Whatever happened, you didn’t have time to react in a typical way. Tim returns to the home screen and then taps the photos app. You took a picture of Kojo laying on Tim yesterday, but nearly a dozen new photos are displayed beneath it. Not the kind of photos you would take, Tim realizes as he stands straighter.

There’s a screenshot of your lock screen taken 45 minutes ago, a blurry image of the back of your legs and a pair of boots in front of you, a seconds-long video that Tim can’t bring himself to play yet, and a picture of a gloved hand wrapped around your arm. Tim locks your phone again and exhales deeply, attempting to remain calm. Based on those images, he’s convinced that his worst fear is coming true. You’ve been abducted. He sees Angela’s unmarked car pull in and steps off the sidewalk to meet her and walk her through his movements. As he passes your car, something glints in the light, and he steps back.

“Tim,” Angela says as she exits her car after parking behind Tim’s truck. “Tell me everything.”

Tim doesn’t reply as he lifts something off your car. Your engagement ring wouldn’t just fall off; you left it.

“Tim,” Angela repeats when she sees the ring and your phone. “What happened?”

Tim clears his throat before explaining that you weren’t home, so he called and came here. He passes her your unlocked phone and mentions that he couldn’t watch the video. And the ring.

“What’s her name?” Nyla asks.

Tim answers, realizing that Nyla probably doesn’t know who you are. “My wife.”

Her eyes widen as she looks at Angela. They meet at the back of your car to watch the video, and Tim stares at your ring lying on his palm instead of around your finger.

“We need to find her,” he says, looking up. “Now.”

“Tim, I know you’re worried,” Nyla begins.

“Of course I am,” he replies. “But I’m also angry, and you can use that.”

“We’re not going to ask you to sit this out,” Angela assures him. “She’s smart, and if anyone can pick up the clues she’ll leave, it’s you.”

“I know it’s probably a stupid question, but any idea who would do this?” Nyla asks.

“She doesn’t have any enemies,” Tim answers. “But this wasn’t random.”

“No,” Angela agrees. “She got the vehicle on camera. Unfortunately, we can only make out that it’s a blue minivan.”

“Easy to find in LA,” Tim grumbles.

“Right. I’ll get the phone to cyber, see what they can find.”

Tim walks down the length of your car and looks to his right. “If they went east, I know where she’d try to leave the next clue.”

Nyla takes your phone and gets in Angela’s car to return to the station while Angela climbs into Tim’s passenger seat.

“Are you prepared to deal with this if she didn’t leave any more clues?” she asks softly.

“I’m ready to finish this,” Tim answers. “Whatever it takes.”

Angela nods as he turns out of the parking lot and heads east. They both know that targeted abductions rarely end well, but neither of them says it aloud. You’re smart, but that doesn’t make you infallible. Or indestructible.

You cough before you spit blood from your mouth. Everything hurts, and you have no idea where you are. After you managed to leave Tim another clue in a place he’d think to go – if he’s realized that he needs to look yet – the men who took you decided it would be better for you to not know where you were going. They blindfolded you, covered your mouth, and drove in silence. You tried to keep track of the turns and the time, but they kept you from doing that. The larger man, the one who pinned you to the wall, moved you into the floor of the van and held something that felt suspiciously like a gun against your sternum. It moved every time the driver turned, and you were too distracted to notice which way your body rolled.

“I don’t…” you pant, “know what bag.”

He swings his fist in an arch, holding your shoulder as he punches beneath your diaphragm. Your breath leaves in a painful rush, and you drop to the wooden floor beneath you when he removes his hands from you.

“We’ve got all night,” he says. “You don’t. Start talking, and no more of the don’t know act.”

“Whatever you’re looking for, I am not the person you need to find it.”

“No,” he agrees, bending at his waist to look into your eyes. “You’re the next best thing.”

You take the opportunity to spit into his exposed eyes, and he stumbles back as he wipes at his face. Smiling, you ignore the pain for a moment.

“You don’t know anything about me,” you taunt.

“I don’t have to,” he replies. “I just have to wait until you’re ready to tell me.”

He leaves you alone in the dilapidated bedroom, and you wrap your arms around your stomach and push yourself to stand. The window is barred and it’s dark out, but you can see plenty of lights beneath you. You’re somewhere in the hills, but you might be here forever without a way to get that information to Tim.

“That wasn’t very nice,” the other man says, kicking the door closed behind him.

A rope rests over his shoulder, and he cracks his knuckles as he stalks toward you like a predator. He’s been quiet until now, just the driver, but as he nears you, you begin to think he’s the one you should have been scared of all along.

“Getting anything?” Wade asks, entering the observation area.

“No,” Tim answers.

“She left you clues,” Wade points out. “We’ll find her.”

“There’s not enough to go on!” Tim exclaims, letting his emotions come out in front of someone he trusts. “Her ring and a bracelet left in a restaurant parking lot isn’t going to save her life.”

“Then keep looking,” Wade encourages. “Bradford, you and I both know a trail doesn’t go cold this quick. Something will come up.”

“She said something about a bag,” the man sitting across the table from Angela says. “Then the big guy led her back to the van.”

“A bag?” Angela repeats. “Do you remember what exactly she said?”

“Something about not having the bag, and not knowing where it went.”

“That mean anything to you?” Wade asks.

Tim wracks his brain, thinking of every bag he’s seen, confiscated, or searched over the past weeks. He shakes his head and then remembers something. Not a bag, but a man looking for a bag.

“Aaron stopped a car on Pico,” he tells Wade. “There was a backpack sitting on the top of it. Aaron offered it to the guy, and he refused to take it; insisted it wasn’t his.”

“Right,” Wade agrees, snapping as the memory resurfaces. “It was searched when he brought it in. There was drug residue all over it – all over it. Not enough to charge someone probably, but it could’ve been indicative of possession with intent.”

“I didn’t think about then,” Tim mumbles.

“Think about what?” Angela inquires as she returns. “He didn’t know much, but he did call 911 because he thought the woman was in trouble. Dispatch rerouted him to the Sheriff’s department and they can’t even take themselves seriously, so it’s still showing as active and waiting for response.”

“The same morning Aaron found that bag, Chen and I were trailing one of Metro’s CIs to a meeting and there was a guy looking frantically in a parking lot,” Tim explains. “A parking lot just off Pico. He was looking on top of cars and crawling around on the ground. Chen asked him if he needed help, and he said he was looking for his cat.”

“Get a name? Description?”

“Name, no, but Chen had her body cam on.”

Wade leads them to his office and finds the footage from the encounter. The man captured was large, had a scar across his chin, and looked like the kind of guy who wouldn’t care about a cat.

“Rick Wendell,” Angela says. She shows his most recent mugshot – when he first got the scar on his chin – and swipes through his record. “He’s got two houses. One of them is in the hills.”

“How’d a career criminal afford that?” Wade wonders.

“Bought it in a foreclosure for less than 300 thousand,” she reads. “It’s secluded, falling apart, but he’s up to date on the payments.”

“Good place to take someone if you want privacy.”

“I found out guy,” Nyla announces, rushing into the office.

“So did we,” Angela says, showing her the mugshot.

Nyla’s brows pinch before she replies, “He wasn’t the driver.”

“We have reason to believe they’re at Wendell’s house,” Tim interjected. “What’s the driver have to do with it?”

Nyla shows another mugshot, and Tim feels like he’ll never breathe again.

“Ankou,” Tim says.

“AKA Peter Newman, his given name,” Nyla adds. “Wanted by every three-letter agency and just about everyone on Interpol’s roster.”

“What’s he got against you, Bradford?” Wade inquires.

“I got him extradited on a drug charge. He watched two young girls OD on over-potent heroin, but possession was all I could get him on. While he was overseas, we raided every drug stash we could find. He got out of prison after a few months and came back to nothing but more warrants.”

“Did you happen to take a bag?” Angela asks.

“All but one,” he says. “We could never find the rest of his signature heroin.”

“Which is likely what Aaron stumbled on,” Nyla deduces. “And he’s targeting you rather than Aaron because it’s your fault he had to move what was left.”

“And now he’s trying to get information from my wife,” Tim snaps. “So why are we still standing here?”

“Because we can’t waltz into his house without a plan,” Angela replies. “I have to ask… Does she know about Ankou, or the drugs?”

“No.”

“Really? Not even a mention?” Nyla asks.

“She doesn’t know,” Tim insists roughly. “I keep her away from this. Look where it got her.”

“I hate to bring this up,” Wade begins. “But the bag has been missing for nearly a week. Why now?”

“He’s got a meet,” Angela realizes.

“And if he doesn’t have the drugs, he’ll offer something else,” Tim says. “Or someone.”

“Tim,” Wade says. When he finally has his attention, he asks, “What do we do?”

“You’re not going to agree with what my instincts are telling me to do.”

“If it were Luna, I’d do whatever I had to. You wife trusts you, now trust yourself. Walk us through it.”

Tim glances at the map on Angela’s phone. “He won’t expect us to come down the hill.”

The sun rises over LA, sending scattered light through the dirty window behind you. Your chest rises and falls slowly, every breath painful and shallow. Everything hurts, but you hold the splintered floorboard you pried up between your bloody hands, ready to fight when one of your abductors returns.

A hinge squeals downstairs, and you grip the wood tighter. You can’t hear footsteps, but you know someone is coming. When a gunshot echoes through the house, you push yourself against the wall and wait, letting your eyes close as you listen.

Tim doesn’t hesitate to fire when Wendell comes toward him with a sawed-off shotgun. He keeps his gun up as he walks to Wendell’s side and squats. Wendell doesn’t have a pulse, but Tim notices there is plenty of blood on him. His gloves are worn and stained, and some of the blood coating the outside of the fabric is fresh.

“She’s here,” Tim whispers over his shoulder.

Nyla taps Tim’s shoulder as she and Wade go left. Tim and Angela go right and soon come to a narrow staircase.

Ankou – the henchman of death – is in the house, and Tim must find him before he returns to you. Ankou is an omen of death and, in France, he is death personified as a skeleton with a scythe. This Ankou, however, is just a criminal who got away with too much and got too cocky about it.

Tim has taken down his fair share of monsters and a faux Grim Reaper doesn’t scare him. Especially when Peter Newman is holding his wife hostage.

Stepping over a loose step, Tim nears the top of the staircase. Three closed doors and a dead-end hall greet him. One of the doors has runes drawn on it, and Tim’s instincts tell him it’s a trap.

Angela gestures toward it, and Tim shakes his head. He walks to the door farthest from the steps and lays his hand on the doorknob. Angela covers him as he pushes it open, and Tim doesn’t take a step in before he wraps his hand around someone’s neck and flips them onto the floor.

You drop the broken weapon and let your tears fall as Tim walks into the bedroom, holstering his gun as he nears you. Angela handcuffs your attacker, groaning on the floor after Tim took him down.

“I got you,” Tim murmurs, visually inspecting every mark on you.

“How-” You hiccup as you reach for him, but once your hand is in his, you ask, “How did you find me?”

“I trusted my instincts,” he answers softly.

You nod, leaning toward him. Tim cups your chin in his other hand as you reply, “Thank God you have good instincts.”

“You left me clues,” he points out.

“Not enough.”

Tim shakes his head, then lifts you carefully into his arms to get you out of the house. The ambulance is waiting outside when he carries you out into the sunlight, and you cling to him as he lowers you onto the gurney.

“You must have really good instincts,” you say.

Tim takes your hand, his jaw tightening when he sees the blood and dirt surrounding your nails. You fought, and you endured torture and pain, yet you’re thanking Tim for coming as if he rescued you.

“About one thing, at least,” he replies as he climbs into the ambulance beside you.

“You look so good!” Angela exclaims, wrapping her arms around your shoulders as you enter Tim’s house.

“Thank you,” you reply, laughing. “I think the bandages and the stitches bring out my eyes.”

“If you ever decide to switch careers, the LAPD could use another strong woman,” Nyla adds.

“Absolutely not,” Tim and Wade answer together.

Your brows lift as you look at Wade, and he explains, “I’m not dealing with Bradford like that ever again. Stay safe, all right? That’s an order.”

“Thank you for everything,” you tell them. “When I’m actually looking and feeling good again, you’re all invited to dinner.”

“We’ll be here,” Angela promises. “Call us if you need anything. There’s food in the fridge, more in the freezer, and more gift cards and baskets than I can count all over your dining room.”

You nod, give her and Nyla a hug, and then wave as they leave. Wade is the last to go, giving you another hug and promising to check in often. Once you’re alone, you turn to Tim.

“Did you find a gift bag in the stuff I dropped outside the coffee shop?” you ask.

“Yeah, it’s on the bed,” he answers. “Do you want it now?”

“It can wait,” you reply. “It’s special, so I wanted to make sure it was okay.”

“Not the only special thing that needs to be okay,” he murmurs.

“I’m okay,” you promise, taking Tim’s hand. “Because you found me. And you’ll find me every time.”

Tim nods, running his finger over the silicone wedding ring on your swollen finger. His instincts are good; that’s why he’s such a good cop, but when it comes to you, his instincts are even better. You could be a raindrop in a desert or a snowflake in a blizzard, and Tim Bradford would still find you.

[cookiekissers]

Hi hello, could I request a malewife reader x dark cacao cookie fluff?? Your writing rocks btw 🦖🦖

[Dark Cacao Cookie x House Husband Reader]

AWWWW thanks so much!! <3

Even though the air felt calm then, snowflakes delicately danced on the frigid breeze descending from the mountains. From the tension in the air, everyone knew a harsh snowstorm was approaching. You held on to your husband's arm as you walked through the streets of the Dark Cacao Kingdom, checking in on the Cookies to ensure they were well-prepared for the coming storm. Accompanying you were Caramel Arrow Cookie and Crunchy Chip Cookie, serving as your husband's guards. Two other aides pulled a wagon filled with supplies, distributing bags of essentials to the kingdom's citizens. You gazed up at Dark Cacao's handsome, stoic face. He glanced to the hazy peaks in the distance, a line of worry etched into his dough as he gauged how much time they had before the winter storm hit.

You reached up and gently caressed his cheek with your warm hand, bringing his attention to you. With an amused smile, you brushed away some snow that had collected in his long, dark hair. Dark Cacao Cookie held your hand to his cheek, turning his head, he gave your palm a quick, reverent kiss. Snowflakes had fallen, and delicately rested on his lashes, making him even more beautiful against the stark white snow.

"Don't worry, love, we've been through worse storms. The kingdom can handle it." You said reassuringly. Dark Cacao Cookie didn't answer, but he nuzzled your hand for a moment before letting go.

"The storm is approaching. I'll have Caramel Arrow Cookie escort you back to the castle. Wait for me there," he replied. Normally, you would have insisted on staying right by your husband's side, as you were just as much a ruler of the kingdom as he was. You didn't want Dark Cacao Cookie to bear the entire burden of the kingdom alone. As his partner, you felt that the kingdom was your responsibility too, and you were determined not to let him carry it alone.

But this time, you allowed Caramel Arrow Cookie to usher you back to the castle. You turned to look behind you and saw Dark Cacao Cookie speaking with Crunchy Chip Cookie. The cream wolf captain stood to attention, and after a moment once he received his orders, hopped onto the back of his trusted wolf companion and led the cream wolf squadron to the great gates of the kingdom.

At least this gave you a chance to prepare a little surprise for your husband once he got back to the castle.

The castle servants fussed over you while preparing your surprise, insisting that you let them take care of everything for you. However, this was special, and it was something you wanted to do on your own.

You threw another cream wood log into the fireplace to ensure your shared bedchambers were toasty and warm for your husband when he returned from his duties. But you didn't stop there. You considered yourself a dedicated house husband, and for your lover, you would always go above and beyond for him. You prepped a warm meal and oven-fresh buns for the both of you, lit candles around the room, readied and pressed Dark Cacao Cookie's robes, and took care of any remaining business from the day that regarded the kingdom.

You signed and sat on the edge of the bed after finishing all your hard work. The timing was perfect as the bedroom door opened, and Dark Cacao Cookie quietly slipped inside. He removed his fur-lined cape and shook the snow off before hanging it on the wall. You stood up excitedly and scampered up to him, quickly catching him in your embrace.

"Dear, welcome home!" you said happily. Dark Cacao Cookie's dough was cold to the touch, but he seemed to melt under your warmth. His tired eyes crinkled slightly as he smiled at you. Dark Cacao held you closely in his arms, kissing your cheek affectionately.

"How did everything go?" you asked.

"All the supplies have been distributed. We'll just have to wait and see how we handle the storm when it arrives," Dark Cacao Cookie said with a weary sigh. He looked up and seemed momentarily surprised by the room before glancing back down at you.

"What's all this?" He questioned. You smirked and gave your husband a quick peck on the lips before pulling him over to the bed.

"I prepared all this for you." You said, "So you can relax with me this evening." You smiled sweetly. You picked up his robes, neatly unfolding them and handing them to Dark Cacao Cookie to put on. Your husband's brow furrowed in an all too familiar way when he was feeling guilty.

"Thank you for all this, dearest. But there's more work for-" Dark Cacao Cookie began to say but you interrupted him with a click of your tongue. You gingerly reached up, and took his crown off for him.

"Not this time. I took care of everything today, so you have no choice but to spend the evening with me." You grinned playfully. Dark Cacao Cookie smiled slightly and relaxed. His strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, and he kissed you deeply. Dark Cacao Cookie's still cold lips moved against your's sweetly, and when he pulled away, he sighed quietly against your shoulder.

"Thank you, my dearest." He said gratefully.

You helped your husband undress slowly. Kissing his body lovingly whenever his dark dough peeked out from behind the silky fabric. Slipping his warm, prepared robe over his shoulders, you tied the sash around his waist, kissing his chest tenderly once you were done. You noticed Dark Cacao Cookie watching you with admiration. He admired your every move with such tenderness and adoration you couldn't help but blush like you weren't already married.

Dark Cacao Cookie pulled you against his chest, swaying with you in his arms. He kissed the top of your head as you rested against his chest. How did he get so lucky to marry such a wonderful man like you?

A quiet knock at the door brought your attention away from each other. A servant slid the door open and bowed their head.

"Your majesties," They greeted. "I have today's report of the kingdom's resources." They said. Dark Cacao Cookie frowned slightly.

"Leave it. I will attend to it later. Now, do not disturb us for the rest of the night." He ordered.

[laora-ryn]

Just in case anyone was wondering, I am in fact a federal employee and I am in fact having A Fucking Time Of It

In roughly chronological order, here's all the things that have fucked us over the last two weeks:

Hiring freeze effective immediately, which involved rescinding final offers to people who were about to start their job. A final offer is something you can get a mortgage with btw. It's what you get after months of paperwork. It's something you move cross country for. Eighteen people just at our hospital had a final offer rescinded

A demand for a return to in person work, with no explanation given for why they want this so badly. No explanation on people who have teleworking written into their contracts, or people who have teleworking as a reasonable accommodation

Related to the hiring freeze: no creation of any new jobs in even a preliminary way, even to prep to fill existing vacancies after the 90 days are over

Closing of all DEIA teams groups, webinar series, webpages, department gatherings... Anything you can think of. This included the queer teams based communities that were just a place for people to chat

Related to this: our acting secretary sending out an email that sounds straight out of the fucking Gestapo, where "we are aware of efforts by some in government to deliberately redefine DEIA positions in an attempt to keep their jobs. If you know of this happening, here's an email line we've set up for tips. There won't be adverse consequences for reporting, however, failure to report may have adverse consequences"

What appears to have been trying to be a total freeze on federal spending, which threw literally everything into chaos, I was not able to follow it at all, but the hospital is still running so I'm assuming money is happening somewhere

Two strange emails from OPM.gov, marked EXTERNAL, saying they're testing a new distribution list and to please reply yes. These were considered so universally sus by employees that they had to come down from central office and confirm that yes, these are legit, please reply

A day later, an email from that same external address offering voluntary resignation, which I'm pretty sure is the bit that's been all over the news for (checks notes) being word for word the same email musk sent to Twitter before proceeding to Not Pay Them

A restriction on communication and travel. "No speaking engagements or attendance at public facing events, seminars, or conferences (unless approved by chief of staff) for 6 months. VA only events are excluded." Which was later clarified to mean "well if you're going for continuing Ed, as long as you aren't presenting, it's ok" but then backtracked to "it's probably ok but you still need approval which can take upwards of a month." Why are they restricting speaking at conferences? It's not a money thing because traveling for VA events still costs money. It's like they're looking to prevent staff from interacting with anyone external, for some reason

And today, an email this morning that "leadership has received guidance from the office of personnel management [regarding the EO about "gender ideology extremism and restoring biological truth"] and is working to execute the EO fully, faithfully, and thoughtfully."

This afternoon at 4:30, this began with an all employee email saying that all personal pronouns are being removed from Outlook display names by IT, which was a system implemented several years ago and broadly popular! But nope, we'll need to go back to guessing what genders new coworkers named Quinn, Alex, Morgan, and Taylor are.

(oh I forgot! I can't use the word gender at work anymore. Using Proper Terminology (as interpreted by our ~~~Illustrious President~~~) in all communications at work is now required)

It's been a fucking week and a half and I am so goddamn tired guys. Sorry I haven't been on again but I'm spending most of my energy on Not McFucking Losing It rn

[spectres-fulcrum]

They’re going to parallel the fucking dinner date scene, aren’t they?

Bobby told Buck to be strong because everyone else is going to need him and there’s been all this rhetoric about Buck making things about himself when he’s showing his emotions so he’s not going to show his pain to anyone. He’ll be the pillar of support everyone else needs. Hug Athena and May, deal with Chim’s survivor’s grief, meal prep and cook bulk meals to be distributed out so Athena and May and Karen and Maddie and Ravi and Tommy don’t have to worry about cooking with this grief, etc etc. and his emotions are going to pile up but Bobby told him to be strong.

And finally Tommy’s going to be at his house. They’ll be in the kitchen. Buck will be working on his next batch of meals. Tommy will finally force the issue of how is Buck doing, and Buck will insist he’s fine. Because he has to be. Bobby told him he had to be. But Tommy saw. He knows.

He knows that Buck shattered into a million pieces in that hallway. And he’ll just say into the tense air, “Evan, your dad is dead.” As a mirror for him saying Buck’s father was alive after the heart attack.

And Buck falters, drops whatever he’s holding. And Tommy will assure him, he doesn’t expect Evan to be okay, much less fine. He just wants Evan’s honesty. And Evan breaks and falls into his arms and sobs and says he’s dead over and over and Tommy can provide little comfort but his arms around Buck.

Because his dad is dead. And nothing will ever be the same. But curled up together on the kitchen tile, something begins again.

(Okay this got fanficy but you get my point)

[lil-leviathan]

Lots of thought went into the decision but I got the Ashford wheel today! I also started (and will probably finish) spinning this braid:

It's the colorway Grapevine from Knitting My Way Home. 50% Merino, 25% silk, 25% flax. The deep rich green, teal and purple are gorgeous and contrasted so well by the pale lavender/seafoam sections.

However, the flax is annoying. Even with a TON of prep (I spent all last evening splitting and pre-drafting to try and distribute it) it's still spinning up in crusty-feeling clumps. I'll trust the process and see how i feel in the end.

I'm doing a fractal 3-ply and trying to get the hang of the wheel! I had to replace the brake band from cotton to monofilament because some of the bobbins were rougher than others, but that was easy enough.

Here's the first 2 plies. Will probably show off the finished yarn by evening's end!

[southeastasianists]

It was the mid-1980s when Paul Toh came of age as a gay man, decades before smartphones and dating apps made sex a lot more accessible right at your fingertips. Toh has been diagnosed with HIV since 1989. 

Now semi-retired with his own business distributing antiretroviral therapy medication and HIV pre-exposure prophylaxis (PrEP), the 59-year-old said that in those days, cruising in public parks, toilets, and back alleys of dirty shophouses along pre-cleanup Singapore River for sex was par for the course. 

Unsurprisingly, cruising in public made gay men easy targets for police officers. “They started going to these cruising grounds undercover, with the explicit intention of entrapping and arresting gay men,” Toh added.

Police raids in nightlife establishments with gay clientele also became common, with prominent gay discotheque Niche having its liquor license withdrawn by the police in 1989 and the Rascals incident of 30 May 1993, in which multiple patrons were arrested for not having their NRICs on them. This came to be remembered by veteran activists as Singapore’s Stonewall. 

Fear about the spread of AIDS was part of the reason why police intensified their clamp down on queer spaces. In April 1987, Singapore experienced its first AIDS-related death. And one year later, the Director of Public Affairs of the Singapore Police Department said in a Straits Times article that “homosexual activities have been strongly linked to the dreaded AIDS disease,” making it an “added reason in the public interest for police to disallow homosexuals to convert places licensed for entertainment into places where they can congregate.”

Iris’ Work of Fighting Stigma

76-year-old health advisor Iris Verghese was among the first health workers to rise to the occasion when Singapore reported its first HIV/AIDS cases. 

“I knew just as little about HIV/AIDS as everyone else,” said the retired nurse, who first joined Middle Road Hospital, a now-defunct treatment centre for sexually transmitted diseases, in 1974. As part of her job, Verghese was tasked with contact tracing people who had sexually transmitted infections. 

The job brought Verghese to brothels and nightclubs in Geylang’s red-light district, which meant she was no stranger to serving society’s Others with kindness. 

“A lot of it has to do with my faith.”

“I thought about my role models like Jesus and Mother Teresa—they didn’t care what illness you had. If they could hang out with people with leprosy, then who am I to refuse to care for those with HIV/AIDS?”

Verghese’s work is well-documented, and everyone has given her the accolades she deserves—from President Halimah Yacob to the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Singapore to the Straits Times, which named her an everyday hero in 2019.

Plague, a 15-minute short film by Singaporean filmmaker Boo Junfeng, captures the emotional gravity of the care work performed by Verghese and health workers like herself. 

The emotionally-stirring film is inspired by Verghese’s work with HIV/AIDS patients in the ’80s and offers a look into the life of Jamie, a patient who stopped coming to the clinic for treatment and counselling.

In the film’s climax, set in the patient’s HDB flat, Verghese tries to dissuade Jamie from inflicting internalised stigma. Jamie insists on using disposable plastic cups and utensils and cleaning every surface he touches for fear of passing the virus to his loved ones.

Wanting to prove that HIV/AIDS is not transmissible through saliva, Verghese takes Jamie’s plastic cup and drinks from it. She then hands him a regular glass, beckoning for him to drink from it, only for him to swipe it away, breaking the glass and cutting himself in the process. 

Thus comes the true test of Verghese’s dedication to her profession as she steels herself to the drastically heightened risk. Now that her patient is bleeding, she is dealing no longer just with saliva, but with blood carrying the virus. 

In our interview, Verghese recalled many incidents like these. One that stuck with me was her counselling session with Singapore’s first HIV patient, a young gay professional, in 1985. “As I listened to him and gave him a hug, he broke down and cried,” she said. “He said he felt so good afterwards.”

Safe Sex Outreach in the 80s

“Things were very different in the ’80s and ’90s,” said Professor Roy Chan, Founding President of Action for AIDS Singapore (AfA). AfA is a non-government organisation founded in 1988 to fight HIV/AIDS infection in Singapore. 

“There was no internet then. When we set up AfA, we had to rely on word of mouth, phone calls, faxes, pagers, and so on. Mobilisation was not as easy then, but we overcame the obstacles we faced. It was very much more hands-on in those days,” Chan recalled. 

Chan set up AfA as a non-governmental organisation in 1988 to respond to the needs of people living with HIV/AIDS, regardless of their sexual orientation or gender identity, as well as to advocate for greater action and awareness around HIV/AIDS. 

AfA was also one of the first community groups in Singapore that served the needs of LGBTQ+ individuals—namely men who have sex with men—disproportionately affected by HIV/AIDS. 

“Back then, people didn’t have as much access to the internet as we do today, meaning that accurate information on HIV/AIDS was much harder to come by, making education efforts vital,” Chan recalled. “On the flip side, no internet meant the gay nightlife scene was more vibrant than what it is today.” 

Since the gay community in the 1980s and 1990s did not have the internet and mobile phone apps to meet other people online, they had to go to physical spaces to fulfil their need for connection, whether it was nightlife establishments or cruising grounds.

Gay clubs were hence crucial in AfA’s outreach programs on safe sex practices back in the ’80s—even if it meant risking the possibility of police raids.

Back then, there were very few places in Singapore where gay men felt safe enough to gather in abundance, making gay clubs a viable hub for outreach and education.

AfA’s outreach efforts endure today in the form of the Mobile Testing Van initiative on weekends. The van, parked outside popular gay nightlife spots in Singapore, aims to bring HIV testing closer to the public, bridging the fear and stigma of walking into a stand-alone clinic to get tested.

The Consequence of Outreach

The people brave enough to put themselves out there to serve a larger cause were but a small minority, especially given the cultural milieu of the time. 

“There was so much that was unknown about HIV/AIDS even among the medical community, much less the general public,” said Verghese.

“Even at Middle Road Hospital, two doctors resigned, and twenty-five nurses asked to be transferred out.”

AfA’s awareness campaigns and fundraiser drives drew a lot of publicity—and no doubt some backlash.

Still, beneath all the headlines and the star power lent by high-profile celebrity allies was the silence surrounding individual HIV/AIDS cases. 

“It was all very hush-hush. People didn’t want to talk about it. No one wanted to know who died of AIDS,” Verghese shared when I asked if the atmosphere in the 90s was similar to that depicted in films and drama series such as The Normal Heart and Pose. 

The shows portrayed the HIV/AIDS crisis in the disease’s epicentre in New York as being a time of deaths and countless funerals attended by surviving gay men. 

One exception to this veil of silence was Paddy Chew, the first Singaporean person to come out publicly as being a person living with HIV/AIDS. 

Chew—well-known for his one-man autobiographical play Completely With/Out Character—told Verghese and her husband that he wanted no crying at his funeral. 

“He asked me to arrange his funeral such that his ashes will be thrown into the sea from a Singapore Armed Forces boat,” said Verghese. She and Chew’s close friends were instructed to be dressed in their party best, with helium balloons that were to be released out at sea. 

“There was one helium balloon that drifted away from the other balloons. To me, that felt like it was Paddy’s soul saying goodbye to us one last time.”

A Tale of Two HIV Diagnoses

Perhaps by coincidence—or not, since Verghese was one of the very few nurses dedicated to caring for HIV/AIDS patients at the time—Toh’s then-partner was also one of Verghese’s patients. 

“My then-partner Freddie and I handled our HIV diagnoses very differently, but of course, we also came from very different backgrounds and life experiences,” said Toh. 

“I found out about my status because an ex-lover of mine had come down with pneumocystis pneumonia (PCP). I flew to Sydney for a diagnosis so that I wouldn’t be registered in the local system here if I was found to be positive.” 

On the other hand, Freddie found out about his HIV-positive status because he was a regular blood donor. Not only was his diagnosis inevitably recorded in the national registry, but Freddie also ran into legal trouble. He was charged in court for false disclosure of his sexual activity. 

“Because of how the entire trial turned out, Freddie was sentenced to imprisonment for twice the expected duration. It affected his entire outlook in life, feeling like he was being framed by a bigger power with an agenda, with the whole world against him,” said Toh, who cared for Freddie until he passed in 2008. 

Toh, on the other hand, took his diagnosis as an opportunity to re-evaluate his life and make the most of the eight years that the doctor told him back in 1989 he had left to live. 

“When I received my diagnosis, the only thing in my mind was this: it is the quality of life that matters, not the quantity.” And so, the two spent the next few years of their lives travelling the world, making their remaining years as meaningful as they could be. 

Anything for a Chance at Life

Maximising his remaining years did not stop at travel for Toh. Having managed to get his hands on antiretroviral therapy in Sydney in the form of azidothymidine (AZT), he went on to look for more effective forms of medication while the technology was being developed in real-time. Toh wanted to help other HIV patients like himself. 

In 1994, Toh joined the Asia Pacific Network of People with HIV/AIDS (APN+), a regional network advocating for the improvement of the lives of people with HIV/AIDS in the Asia-Pacific region, later becoming a Board member and secretariat.

“North America and Europe were progressing swiftly in their battle against HIV/AIDS thanks to the work of activists there putting pressure on their governments and the medical community to channel funding towards the research and development of suitable treatment for HIV/AIDS,” said Toh.

“In Asia, however, it’s a different story. We had to be street smart in our advocacy while also looking elsewhere for allies.”

This meant looking to donors in the West who could be persuaded to recognise the importance of HIV/AIDS advocacy in Asia.

“I was very lucky to have the opportunity to be one of the first few Asians who had access to HAART, said Toh. 

HAART (Highly active antiretroviral therapy) is a triple-combination of antiretroviral drugs discovered in 1996 by Professor David Ho. Toh had been invited to attend the 11th International Conference on AIDS in Vancouver, Canada, where the discovery of this triple cocktail was announced. 

Within three months of beginning HAART treatment in 1996, Toh saw his health improving tremendously, with his CD4 count—a measure for the immune system of PLHIV—increasing exponentially and his viral load becoming undetectable within the fourth month. 

Although Toh already had a supply of free antiretroviral medication from his healthcare provider in Sydney, he continued to look elsewhere for alternative sources for patients who were unable to afford the patented medication. 

“Unlike Taiwan, Hong Kong, and South Korea, where medication for HIV/AIDS was provided to patients for free, Singapore was the only Asian Tiger which did not do so,” said Toh. 

“Meanwhile, pharmaceutical companies in developing countries like Brazil, India, and Thailand were manufacturing their own generic antiretroviral medication in spite of patent laws, making it more affordable.”

While still not free, MOH announced in 2020 that HIV medication would become subsidised.

Singapore’s Very Own ‘Buyers Club’

With patented HIV/AIDS medication in the ’80s continuing to be inaccessible to many who needed it, buyers clubs—similar to the one featured in the 2013 film Dallas Buyers Club—would soon emerge worldwide, including Singapore. 

“The funny thing was that Australia had easy access to HIV/AIDS medication, so there was a lot of stock available in Sydney,” said Verghese. A family vacation down under in 1987 turned into an informal research trip for her to network and gather the information that she needed to perform her job optimally. 

During her trip, she met HIV researcher Dr David Cooper, who brought her to Albion Street Centre (now known as The Albion Centre), which specialises in HIV/AIDS management. 

Through her newfound contacts, Verghese managed to get her hands on some of the unused stocks of medication in Sydney back to Singapore for her support group. 

“We even got the help of the Singapore Airlines flight attendants to pool together their unused baggage allowance to bring this medication back,” she recounted with a laugh. 

Antiretroviral medication was not the only asset that Verghese brought back. She learned a lot about the virus from the professionals she met in Sydney, allowing her to move faster than the national response and gather the information needed to tend to her patients. 

A Ground Up Initiative

“George Yeo was actually very impressed with what we were doing,” recounted Verghese. “He wanted to meet with the community to learn more about our efforts and arranged a closed-door meeting with us.”

The meeting was the culmination of months of sending letters to Yeo, the Minister of Health at the time. The dialogue session was held to discuss the government’s rule that mandated the bodies of AIDS sufferers to be buried or cremated within twenty-four hours of dying. 

This rule was finally lifted in December 2000, after four years of advocacy by AfA.

They argued that the policy was outdated, having been implemented in the mid-1980s when hardly anything was known about HIV/AIDS. 

“I think we’ve certainly had to prove ourselves as an organisation over the years,” Chan said. “There might have been concerns among some who thought of us as a gay rights organisation, or misconceptions that AfA worked solely on issues that concern gay people.”

“But we’ve proven ourselves over the years to be a serious and effective organisation tackling HIV/AIDS and sexual health with clear metrics of success, and the results and continued support from the government speak for themselves,” added Prof Chan. 

Toh, who served as AfA’s Executive Director from 2007-2009, concurs. 

“Actually, not many people know this, but MOH has been quite supportive of AfA over the years. Even during my term, they would hold closed-door discussions with us, intently wanting to work with us on eliminating HIV/AIDS,” said Toh. He reckoned that MOH did not want to be publicly seen as supporting something considered by society as ‘morally corrupt’ no matter how beneficial it is to wider society. 

The Fruits of Our Predecessors’ Labour Are Not Handed on a Silver Plate

The history of HIV/AIDS and its role in fomenting community-building among the LGBTQ+ community has always been a topic of fascination for me.

I can only imagine what it must have been like to see everyone in your social circles and communities succumbing, one by one, to an unknown disease. 

Covid-19 provided the closest representation of the tumultuous and uncertain time in the ’80s.

In the midst of writing this, however, the comparison became a much closer one. Monkeypox is now affecting men who have sex with men more than the rest of the general population. 

“It’s not the same thing,” Chan said, cautioning against making blanket comparisons between monkeypox and HIV/AIDS.

“For starters,” he intoned, “monkeypox is not an unknown disease. We’ve known about monkeypox for decades, so it is nothing close to HIV back in the ’80s.”

Admittedly, life is easier for a gay man like me, who came of age at a time when HIV/AIDS is no longer considered a significant threat. 

With common knowledge of medication as well as preventative measures like safer sex and pre and post-exposure prophylaxis (PrEP and PEP), it is easy for me and my peers to take for granted the freedoms that we now enjoy, thanks to decades of advocacy and destigmatisation. 

But as Prof Chan said, “It is important not to be complacent. The freedoms and advancements we have today were not handed on a silver platter. Earlier generations had to fight very hard for all of these things.”

[mrs-delaney]

Hide | Layover In Cincinnati | Chapter Seven

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Riley Carter (OC)

Word Count: 14.9k

Requested: No | Yes

Warnings: Mild language, emotional vulnerability, intimate moments, jet lag kisses, borrowed clothes, and that bittersweet ache when saying "see you later" feels harder than you expected

A Few Quick Notes:

📝 This story is ONLY posted on Wattpad and Tumblr under miss_delaney. If you see it anywhere else, it's been stolen. Do NOT copy, repost, translate, or distribute my work on any other platform. Please respect my writing.

🔔 Want to be added to the taglist? Drop a comment or message me! 💌

Requests: Open

Author's Note:

There's something transformative about seeing someone in their natural habitat. This chapter explores what happens when Riley steps into Joe's carefully ordered world—when vintage vinyl meets meal prep containers, when wet footprints disrupt pristine hardwood, when birthday cake appears in a minimalist kitchen.

For Joe, it's about creating space—both literally and figuratively—for something he never knew he needed. A turntable that doesn't match his decor becomes the perfect metaphor for Riley's presence in his life: unexpected, slightly out of place, yet somehow completing the picture. The house that always felt like a showroom begins to feel like a home when her coffee mugs are left without coasters and her laughter fills the high ceilings.

For Riley, it's witnessing the depth beneath Joe's composed exterior. It's discovering the thoughtfulness behind his gestures—a teal SpongeBob cake, a rare Howlin' Wolf pressing, a Bengals hoodie waiting after a transatlantic flight. It's realizing that his minimalism isn't coldness; it's simply a different language of care.

I wanted to capture that delicate dance of navigation when two people with fundamentally different rhythms try to harmonize. The contrast between Joe's structured existence and Riley's creative chaos isn't just a source of tension—it's the spark that makes them work. She teaches him to feel music rather than analyze it; he shows her the comfort in certain kinds of steadiness.

As they explore Cincinnati together, the seeds of future tension begin to take root. In the Range Rover with tinted windows, in Joe's careful statement about keeping things private "at least for now," we see Riley's quiet discomfort. She understands privacy—but there's a fine line between protection and hiding, one that triggers whispers of doubt. Though unspoken in the moment, her distinction between privacy and secrecy hints at challenges they'll need to navigate when their bubble eventually bursts.

Their honest conversation in Kentucky reveals their different perspectives while reinforcing their commitment to try. It's not perfect resolution, but rather the beginning of an ongoing negotiation. As they say goodbye at the airfield, the promise "This isn't it for us" feels both genuine and weighty with the unresolved questions that linger beneath the surface.

Thank you all for your incredible comments on the last chapter! Each one fills my creative well in ways you can't imagine. Your insights and reactions keep me going through every writing session.

I can't wait to hear what you think of this one! 🎵🏈🎧🌃

Asks are open, let's talk about this one.

Put on Massive Attack’s Mezzanine while you read. Let it fill the quiet spaces between the dialogue. Let it linger in the background like the feeling of someone’s hands on your hips, waiting for the next song to begin.

Happy reading!

Taglist: @wickedfun9 @starsyoongi @amiets2 @palmettogal508 @throwaway12356123

Riley gazed out the window as the private jet began its descent toward Cincinnati. The city sprawled beneath them, sunlight glinting off the river, sprawling neighborhoods framed by trees just starting to show signs of spring. She rarely opted for private flights despite having access to them—usually saving them for impossible tour schedules or desperate situations. But Joe had insisted, not as a display of wealth but because he'd genuinely wanted to make her journey easier after the long haul from Italy.

"You'll be exhausted enough without dealing with connections and crowds," he'd said when she'd protested. The thoughtfulness behind the gesture touched her more than the luxury itself.

She’d been awake for nearly twenty-four hours straight—from the final night in Italy to the early morning drive to Rome, followed by the eight-hour flight to JFK. Her body clock was completely scrambled, her mind foggy with travel exhaustion. But beneath the fatigue was a nervous energy that buzzed through her veins. In less than fifteen minutes, she’d be seeing Joe again.

The decision to come straight to Cincinnati instead of going home to LA had just made sense, even if it felt a little impulsive. Her friends had backed her up without hesitation.

“I’ll still make it to LA for the studio session on Thursday,” Riley had assured Laura as they hugged goodbye.

“I know you will,” Laura had replied, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. “Just be present in it, Ri. You deserve this.”

Now, as the pilot announced their final approach, Riley glanced down at her wrinkled outfit with a grimace. Between the Italian laundry schedule and the last-minute flight change, she was arriving in Cincinnati wearing yesterday's clothes and carrying a suitcase full of items that desperately needed washing. Not exactly the impression she'd hoped to make, but her options had been limited."

"She'd texted Joe about this predicament from JFK.

Riley: Just a heads up - arriving with exclusively laundry-deprived clothing. Expect me looking significantly less put-together than you. Also haven't slept in 24 hours so I may be slightly delirious. Still want me to come?

His response had been immediate.

Joe: Yes. And handled. Just get here.

The plane touched down smoothly on what appeared to be a private airstrip adjacent to the main airport. As they taxied to a stop, Riley peered through the window and saw a sleek silver Porsche waiting on the tarmac. And leaning against it, arms crossed casually over his chest, was Joe.

For a moment, Riley just watched him through the window, heart beating a rapid tattoo against her ribs. Then the pilot opened the door, and the crisp March air rushed in, making her pull her inadequate jacket tighter around herself."

The flight attendant handed Riley her carry-on with a smile. “Enjoy your stay in Cincinnati, Ms. Carter.”

“Thanks,” Riley said, ducking her head as she made her way down the steps.

Joe looked up as she descended, pushing off the Porsche to stand straight. He wore jeans and a simple gray henley, looking far more put-together than anyone had a right to after what she assumed had been a full day of training.

His face transformed with a smile that hit Riley like a punch to the chest—unexpected and so damn genuine it made the exhaustion slip away.

As she reached him, Joe didn’t lunge or make some big, sweeping gesture. Instead, he stepped forward with that steady, confident ease he always had, and cupped her face with one hand, brushing his thumb along her cheek. He leaned down and kissed her, soft but sure, lingering just enough to make her stomach flip.

When he pulled back, his smile softened, eyes scanning her face like he was still processing that she was actually here.

“Hi,” Riley managed, suddenly breathless.

“Hi,” Joe replied, his thumb brushing her cheek once more before he let his hand drop. “You made it.”

“I did,” Riley confirmed, huffing out a laugh. “Though I may actually be a zombie at this point. Not entirely sure.”

Joe smiled, taking her carry-on. “You’ll survive. Let’s get your bag and get you home.”

“Even with Italy’s chill, I forgot how cold Ohio can be,” Riley said, pulling her light jacket tighter as they walked toward the car. The Tuscan countryside had been brisk in the mornings, but Cincinnati’s damp cold had its own biting quality.

“Different kind of cold here,” Joe agreed, opening the passenger door of the Porsche. On the seat was a neatly arranged shopping bag.

Riley glanced at it, curiosity piqued. “What’s this?” she asked, picking it up as she slid into the butter-soft leather seat.

“For you,” Joe said as he settled into the driver’s side. “Thought you might want something more comfortable than whatever you’ve been recycling for the past week.”

Riley reached into the bag, pulling out a Cincinnati Bengals hoodie and a pair of chestnut Uggs in her exact size. The hoodie was plush and oversized, the kind you wanted to live in. She couldn’t help but smile at the sight of it.

“How did you know my shoe size?” she asked, already picturing herself burrowing into the warm hoodie and feeling a little more human again.

“Sarah reached out to Scout,” Joe explained, referring to their assistants. “Hope that’s okay.”

The thoughtfulness of the gesture hit Riley with unexpected force. After days of wearing the same few outfits, she was beyond ready for something fresh, even if it was just a hoodie and a pair of boots. More than that, it was the effort Joe had put into making her feel comfortable. It wasn’t flashy or over the top—just practical and thoughtful, exactly what she needed.

“Thank you,” she said softly, pulling the hoodie over her travel-worn top and letting out a contented sigh as the soft fabric hugged her skin. “You have no idea how good this feels.”

Joe gave her a quick glance, a satisfied hint of a smile on his lips. “Figured you might appreciate it.”

He pulled the car smoothly away from the airstrip, the engine purring as they merged onto the main road. Riley leaned back against the seat, already feeling a little more settled, a little more herself.

“We’ll be at my place in about twenty minutes,” Joe said, his voice relaxed, like he was already falling back into his usual routine.

Joe glanced at her, already knowing the answer. “Jet lag hitting you yet?”

“Definitely hitting,” Riley admitted, leaning her head back against the seat. “Feels like my body’s still somewhere over the Atlantic.”

"Somewhere between time zones," Riley admitted, leaning her head back against the seat. "I think my body thinks it's still somewhere over the Atlantic."

"You can crash when we get to the house," Joe offered. "No rush to do anything today."

"I appreciate that," she said, fighting another yawn. "Though I'm determined to at least stay conscious for a few hours. It'd be a shame to waste our first actual day together in weeks."

"So," she added, perking herself up, "I'm excited to see your space. Been curious about it since New Orleans."

Joe glanced at her briefly, the corner of his mouth lifting. "It's nothing special."

"I doubt that," Riley replied, studying his profile as he drove. "Everything about you is deliberate. I'm betting your place is the same way."

Joe's hands shifted slightly on the steering wheel. "May not be what you're used to," he admitted. "Not like your place in New Orleans."

There was something almost vulnerable in his tone—a hint that he'd been thinking about the contrast between their homes, about what Riley might think of his space.

They fell into easy conversation as Joe navigated through Cincinnati, Riley taking in the increasingly upscale neighborhoods as they left the city proper. Twenty minutes later, they turned onto a private drive lined with mature trees, ending at a contemporary house set well back from the road. The architecture was striking but not ostentatious—clean lines, large windows, natural materials blending with the wooded surroundings.

"Wow," Riley said, genuinely impressed. "This is..."

"Home," Joe said simply, pulling the Porsche into a three-car garage.

They entered through a mudroom that led into a large open-concept kitchen and living area. The space was modern and minimalist, with that distinct “recently purchased furniture all at once” look. The kitchen featured high-end appliances, most of which looked barely used except for the protein shake blender on the counter. A massive TV dominated one wall of the living room, flanked by an impressive sound system.

There was little that felt lived-in about the space—no clutter, no accumulated decorations or mementos, just a few framed photos (mostly football-related) and what looked like a decorator’s idea of what should be in a successful young athlete’s home. A large sectional faced the TV, and floor-to-ceiling windows showcased a backyard that someone else clearly maintained.

Riley took it all in, raising an eyebrow. “This is… very bachelor pad.”

Joe rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious. “Haven’t really had time to do much with it. Season, then rehab, then…”

“No, it’s nice,” Riley assured him. “Just very… clean.”

“There’s more downstairs,” Joe added. “Basement and gym. I can show you later.”

As she ventured further into the space, her gaze caught on something completely incongruous with the rest of the decor—a high-end turntable set up in the corner of the living room, surrounded by a carefully arranged stack of vinyl records. Unlike everything else, which looked like it had been there since move-in day, this setup was clearly brand new, the console still smelling faintly of wood varnish.

“You got yourself a record player?” Riley asked, moving toward it with interest. “Since New Orleans, I mean.”

"Yeah," Joe said, his tone deliberately casual even as his eyes remained fixed on her face. "Got it yesterday."

Riley ran her fingers over the selection of records beside it, her breath catching slightly as she recognized title after title—an eclectic mix of vintage jazz, indie folk, classic rock, and even some obscure blues artists she'd mentioned loving during their conversations. She pulled out a Howlin' Wolf album identical to the rare pressing she'd shown him at that little record store in New Orleans.

"Did you..." she began, looking between Joe and the collection.

"Sarah knows a guy at a record store," Joe explained, his hands sliding into his pockets. "Told him to put together something you might like."

The gesture hit Riley with unexpected force—not just the expense, which was considerable, but the thought behind it. Joe hadn't merely bought her a gift; he'd carved out a physical space for her in his meticulously ordered world. A space that hadn't existed before she'd entered his life.

"You didn't even own a turntable before New Orleans," she said softly, the realization making something warm bloom in her chest.

Joe met her eyes with that direct gaze that never wavered. "No. I didn't."

Riley set the record down carefully, momentarily speechless. The contrast between his impersonal living space and this deliberate addition—this one corner that screamed of effort and intention—made it more meaningful than any grand gesture could have been.

"Thought you might like it," he said simply.

"I do," she said softly, something shifting between them as the weight of the gesture settled. "I really do."

Riley stood there for a moment, her fingers still resting on the album cover, suddenly aware of the weight behind this gesture. Joe had created this space—this piece of her world—within his carefully controlled environment. For someone as deliberate as Joe, this wasn’t just a purchase—it was a statement.

Rather than overthinking it or turning it into something awkwardly serious, Riley just followed her instinct. She crossed the distance between them in a few quick steps and wrapped her arms around his neck, rising on her tiptoes to pull him into a kiss that said everything her travel-addled brain couldn’t quite articulate.

When they broke apart, she kept her arms looped around his neck, her smile soft and genuine. “You keep surprising me,” she said, her voice light but threaded with something deeper.

Joe's hands settled naturally at her waist, his thumb brushing the fabric of her shirt. There was that quiet confidence in his eyes, but something else too—a hint of vulnerability that he rarely allowed anyone to see.

"After we decided you were coming," he said, voice low and matter-of-fact, "I kept thinking about your place in New Orleans. All those records. How alive it felt." He glanced toward the turntable, then back to her. "Thought you might want to come back if there was music here."

It wasn't poetic, wasn't wrapped in flowery words, but it was honest in a way that was quintessentially Joe—direct and unvarnished. He was telling her, in his own way, that he'd been thinking about how to keep her in his life.

Riley's expression softened as she took in the meaning behind his straightforward admission. She didn't make a big deal of it, knowing that would only make him retreat.

"It's working," she said simply, holding his gaze. "Already mentally planning my next visit."

She glanced back at the turntable, her fingers trailing over the edge of the console. "We're gonna break this in later—I'll pick out something that suits the mood..."

Joe watched as her eyelids grew heavier, the way her shoulders softened with each passing moment. Despite her obvious effort to stay present with him, travel exhaustion was finally catching up to her.

He brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch gentle. "You're exhausted," he said softly, not a question or judgment, just a simple observation. "Let me show you upstairs."

"I wanted to stay up," Riley admitted, leaning slightly into his touch. "First night here and all."

"We have time," Joe said, his voice low and reassuring. He took her hand, intertwining their fingers. "Come on."

Riley nodded, finding herself oddly comforted by his steadiness. As they moved through the house, she let her fingers trail along the walls, taking in details she'd explore more fully tomorrow when her mind wasn't clouded with jetlag.

He led her to a large primary bedroom with a wall of windows overlooking the backyard. The space was simple but intentional—a massive bed with gray bedding, nightstands with books that looked actually read, and a sitting area that caught the natural light.

"Bathroom's through there if you want to shower," Joe said, setting her suitcase on a bench at the foot of the bed. "I'll get you some water."

Riley watched him leave, taking in the fact that he'd brought her straight to his bedroom without hesitation or discussion. The assumption that they'd share a bed should have felt presumptuous, but instead just felt right. Natural, after New Orleans.

She sank onto the edge of the bed, suddenly overwhelmed by exhaustion. The mattress was ridiculously comfortable, the sheets obscenely soft. She ran her hand over the duvet, wondering absently if this was what thread counts were actually about.

Joe returned with a glass of water and some Advil. "Thought you might need this too," he said, setting them on the nightstand. "Jet lag."

"You're amazing," Riley said, already kicking off the Uggs and crawling fully onto the bed. "I'm sorry I'm so useless right now."

"You've been awake for a day," Joe pointed out reasonably. "Sleep. We've got all weekend."

As Riley slid under the covers, too tired to even consider unpacking or showering, Joe leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"I'm glad you're here," he said quietly.

"Me too," Riley murmured, her eyes already closing.

As she drifted toward sleep, she was vaguely aware of Joe moving around the room, drawing blinds, adjusting the temperature. Her eyes fluttered open one last time to see him standing by the window, silhouetted against the fading light, the strong lines of his profile etched against the glass. That was the last image she saw - Joe in his element, solid and certain, watching over her as she slept in his bed.

---

Riley woke slowly, cocooned in warmth, her senses adjusting to the unfamiliar stillness. The room was dim, bathed in the soft gray light of early morning. Outside the windows, the sky was just beginning to lighten, the first hints of dawn barely breaking through. She blinked sleepily, taking in her surroundings—a room too neat and orderly to be hers, too spacious and modern to belong to anyone she knew back home.

Then it clicked—Joe’s house. Cincinnati. She’d made it.

She shifted under the thick duvet, the sheets cool on her bare shoulders. The room itself felt both intentional and effortless—crisp lines and neutral tones, with a sense of balance between minimalism and comfort. A pair of sneakers were kicked off near the door, one overturned on its side. A dark gray hoodie hung over the arm of a low, modern chair near the window. An abandoned hat sat on the dresser, slightly crumpled at the bill. On the floor beside the bed, a pair of socks were left carelessly tangled.

On the nightstand, a piece of paper caught her eye, folded neatly with her name scrawled across the front in Joe’s familiar handwriting. She reached for it, fingers brushing the corner as she picked it up, her pulse quickening just a little. Unfolding the note, she leaned back against the pillows, a small, sleepy smile forming before she even read the words.

Went for a workout. Help yourself to anything. Chef prepped meals in fridge. Back soon. - J

Stretching in the Bengals hoodie Joe had given her when she arrived—the one she'd fallen asleep in—Riley padded barefoot through the unfamiliar hallway, taking in the details she'd been too exhausted to notice the night before. The house was beautiful—modern, expensive, tastefully designed—but also strangely impersonal, like a high-end model home waiting for someone to actually live in it.

Except for one corner. The turntable.

Riley made her way directly to it, running her fingers over the sleek equipment, remembering how touched she'd been last night when she'd noticed the records. The Howlin' Wolf album—identical to the rare pressing she'd shown him in that tiny New Orleans record store—caught her eye again. She carefully slid it from its sleeve, placing it on the turntable.

The raw, gravelly voice filled the silent house moments later, the blues echoing off the high ceilings, transforming the sterile space.

She headed for the kitchen, humming along, her socked feet sliding on the hardwood floors. The open-concept kitchen gleamed with high-end appliances that looked barely touched, except for a protein shake blender that stood at the ready on the counter, clearly Joe's most-used kitchen tool.

Riley opened and closed cabinets at random, investigating. Unlike her jam-packed New Orleans kitchen cupboards stuffed with mismatched mugs and inherited dishes, Joe's contained neat rows of matching glasses and plates, many still looking fresh from the store. The minimalism wasn't meticulous organization so much as the result of someone who simply didn't accumulate things.

After some searching, she found coffee and wrestled briefly with his elaborate espresso machine. The kitchen was the domain of someone who didn't really cook—clean, precise, and equipped with everything necessary, but lacking the lived-in feeling of a space where meals were regularly prepared with love.

She opened the refrigerator, curious about these "chef prepped meals" Joe had mentioned. Inside were stacked containers—not obsessively labeled but clearly professional, sectioned with proteins, vegetables, and carbs. Athlete fuel. She grabbed what looked like breakfast, ignoring the neat stack order completely.

As she searched for cream for her coffee, Riley opened what appeared to be a second, smaller refrigerator tucked into the corner. Instead of finding more meal prep containers or sports drinks, she discovered a cake.

Not just any cake—a bright teal-frosted creation decorated with colorful flower shapes in red, purple, orange, and blue. The text across the top made her heart skip: "26 years later..."

Riley stared, coffee forgotten in her hand. The SpongeBob reference couldn't have been clearer—they'd quoted it to each other that first night in New York when he'd cooked for her in his apartment, both of them laughing until they couldn't breathe when they realized they shared the same ridiculous sense of humor. He'd remembered not just her birthday, but a moment that had first connected them.

She set down her mug and carefully lifted the cake for a closer look, fighting a sudden, unexpected tightness in her throat. This wasn't some extravagant, showy gesture meant for Instagram or public consumption. It wasn't Ethan's elaborate surprise party with photographers. It was small, private, and exactly right.

Riley set the cake back carefully and pulled out her phone, taking a quick picture before returning to her coffee. She cranked the music a little louder, smiling to herself as she leaned against the counter, letting Howlin' Wolf's voice wash over her.

She didn’t know how much time she had before Joe got back—could be minutes, could be hours. Either way, she figured she’d make herself at home, take a shower, maybe explore a little. She left her coffee mug on the counter without a coaster, a small rebellion against the perfect order of his space. A part of her wondered if he’d notice, but another part knew he’d probably just smile and shake his head. She was bringing chaos to his world, and somehow, she knew he'd welcome it.

With Howlin' Wolf still playing downstairs, Riley carried her coffee upstairs and wandered into Joe's bathroom. Like everything else in his house, it was pristine and minimal—glass shower, matching towels, expensive products neatly arranged. She turned the water on as hot as it would go, letting steam fill the space.

Shedding the Bengals hoodie and what remained of yesterday's travel clothes, she stepped into the scalding shower and let the water wash away the last traces of jet lag, singing loudly over the sound of the spray, her voice echoing off the tiled walls.

For once, she wasn’t rushing—no band waiting, no session to get to. Just the quiet luxury of time and space and hot water. Even after the week in Italy, something about being here felt different. She used Joe’s shampoo, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent that clung to him, then wrapped herself in one of the oversized towels hanging on the rack.

Back in the bedroom, she contemplated her suitcase, still unpacked from the night before. The thought of putting on any of her wrinkled, worn, Italy-recycled clothes was distinctly unappealing. Instead, she headed straight for Joe's closet.

It was almost exactly what she’d expected—but with more flair. Everything was organized, yeah, but not obsessively. A row of hoodies and jackets ran from deep neutrals to loud, cocky prints—leopard, camo, something that looked like velvet. Button-downs in unexpected shades—burnt orange, lavender, emerald—hung beside LSU gear and a few Bengals warm-ups. On the floor, sneakers lined up in pristine order: high-tops in every color imaginable, a couple rare pairs she was pretty sure sold out in five minutes online.

She skimmed a hand along a shelf of neatly folded tees and grabbed a soft gray one, worn thin and printed with a faded vintage logo. It hung like a dress on her, mid-thigh and a little stretched at the collar. Perfect.

She slipped it on, added a pair of her own underwear, and headed back downstairs, leaving wet footprints on the hardwood. Her hair dripped down her back as she made her way to the turntable to flip the record. The house was starting to feel different already—less like a showroom and more like a place where someone actually lived.

She was in the middle of rummaging through his kitchen again, hunting for breakfast and singing along with the music, when she heard the front door open. Glancing at the clock, she realized it was barely 10:30 AM—Joe was back far earlier than she'd expected.

She turned, coffee mug in hand, to find him standing in the doorway to the kitchen, gym bag slung over his shoulder. His hair was still damp from a shower, his expression a mixture of amusement and something softer as he took in the sight of her in his t-shirt, music playing, coffee mug balanced precariously on the edge of the counter, signs of her already scattered throughout his carefully ordered space.

“You’re back already?” she asked, a smile spreading across her face.

Joe's eyes moved deliberately over her—bare legs, wet hair, his shirt—before returning to her face. "Didn't want to waste the day," he said simply.

Their eyes held for a moment longer than necessary, the meaning behind his words hanging in the air between them. He'd cut his workout short. Joe Burrow, notorious for his rigid routines, had changed his schedule.

"I found the cake," Riley said, setting down her mug and moving toward him.

Joe's expression shifted slightly, a hint of self-consciousness crossing his features. "I know a bakery," he said, downplaying it in his typical fashion. "Thought you might like it."

Riley stepped closer, until she was directly in front of him. "Twenty-six years later," she quoted softly, watching his face.

The corner of his mouth quirked up in that half-smile she'd come to cherish. "Seemed fitting."

She reached up, hands finding the back of his neck, pulling him down to her level. "Thank you," she murmured, just before her lips met his.

Joe's gym bag hit the floor with a thud, his hands finding her waist, pulling her closer. There was hunger in his kiss, in the way his fingers tightened against her hips, hunger that matched the growing sense of urgency in her own body.

Joe's gym bag hit the floor with a thud, his hands finding her waist, pulling her closer. There was hunger in his kiss, in the way his fingers tightened against her hips, hunger that matched the growing sense of urgency in her own body.

He tasted like mint and smelled like his shampoo—the same one she'd just used. His hands slid lower, finding the bare skin of her thighs beneath his shirt, and Riley gasped against his mouth. 

Joe's hands slid lower, finding the bare skin of her thighs beneath his shirt, and Riley gasped against his mouth. The hunger between them had been building since New Orleans, intensified by distance and anticipation. Now, with nothing standing between them, that hunger consumed them both.

In one fluid motion, Joe lifted her, hands gripping the backs of her thighs as she wrapped her legs around his waist. Her wet hair fell forward, creating a curtain around their faces as he carried her backward until she felt the cool surface of the kitchen counter against her skin.

Joe broke the kiss, his breathing ragged as he looked at her—really looked at her—hair wild from the shower, wearing nothing but his t-shirt, perched on his kitchen counter. His eyes took in the scene around them—the music filling his usually quiet house, her coffee mug on the counter, evidence of her presence transforming his space.

"I like seeing you here," he said, something warm and open in his expression that she rarely got to see.

Riley smiled, reaching to touch his face. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Joe confirmed, his voice low and certain.

He leaned in, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below her ear that he'd discovered in New Orleans. His hands slipped under the t-shirt, tracing up her sides with deliberate slowness that made her shiver. The gentleness of his touch contrasted with the intensity in his eyes when he pulled back to look at her again.

"I missed you," he admitted, the words simple but weighted with meaning.

Instead of matching his seriousness, Riley lightened the moment with a smile. "Enough to skip part of your sacred workout routine?"

Joe's lips quirked in that half-smile she found so endearing. "Sacrifices had to be made."

Riley leaned forward to kiss him again, deepening it immediately as her hands found the hem of his workout shirt, tugging it upward. Joe helped her, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion and tossing it aside without a second thought.

As Riley ran her hands over his chest, Joe moved closer, fitting himself between her legs. His hands slid up her thighs, pushing the t-shirt higher with each movement. She raised her arms, allowing him to pull it off completely, leaving her in nothing but her underwear.

"I've been thinking about this since New Orleans," Joe said, voice rough with desire as his eyes moved over her.

Riley smiled up at him, deliberately provocative as she tugged at the waistband of his athletic shorts. "Show me."

The last thread of Joe's restraint snapped. He captured her mouth in a kiss that was all heat and urgency, all the distance and waiting of the past weeks pouring into a single moment of connection.

His hands were everywhere—her hair, her neck, her breasts—touching her like he couldn't get enough, like he'd been starving for her. Riley matched his intensity, her fingers slipping beneath his shorts, her legs wrapping tighter around his waist to pull him closer.

With quick, efficient movements, Joe helped her push his shorts and compression shorts down just enough, and then there was nothing between them but the electricity of anticipation. Riley's underwear was the last barrier, which Joe removed with a swift, practiced motion, dropping it carelessly to the floor beside them.

When Joe finally pushed into her, they both gasped at the sensation. He stilled for a moment, forehead pressed against hers, breathing her in. Then he began to move, setting a rhythm that had Riley clutching at his back, her nails leaving crescent marks on his skin.

The pristine kitchen filled with the sounds of their breathing, of skin against skin, of whispered encouragements and half-formed pleas. Riley lost herself in the feel of him—the strength of his body moving against hers, the precision of his movements, the way he watched her face for every reaction.

As the tension built within her, Joe's movements grew more urgent, his breathing more ragged. He pressed his forehead against hers, eyes locked on her face with that intense focus that was uniquely his.

"Fucking come," he breathed, his voice strained with his own approaching release.

"I am," Riley gasped, her body tightening around him as the wave crashed over her.

Joe followed moments later, his rhythm faltering as he buried his face in her neck, a deep groan escaping him as he held her tightly against him.

For several long moments, they just held each other, breathing hard, neither wanting to break the connection. Riley's hands smoothed over his back, feeling the slight tremor in his muscles, the racing of his heart against her chest.

Finally, Joe lifted his head, his expression softer than she'd ever seen it. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear with surprising tenderness.

"Officially welcome to Cincinnati," he said, a rare, full smile lighting his features.

Riley laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Hell of a welcome committee."

Joe's eyes crinkled with amusement. "Wait till you see the rest of the tour."

"Is it as hands-on as this part?" Riley asked, deliberately provocative.

"If you want it to be," Joe replied, his expression serious despite the lightness of their banter.

Riley studied his face, recognizing something deeper beneath the surface. This wasn't just about physical attraction—there was an understanding forming between them, a bridge being built between their different worlds.

"I think I'd like that," she said softly.

"Want to break out that cake now?" he asked against her lips.

Riley's eyes lit up. "You're actually suggesting cake before noon? Who are you and what have you done with Joe Burrow?"

Joe shrugged, but his eyes remained fixed on her face. "Maybe he's evolving."

He moved to the small refrigerator, retrieving the teal-frosted cake she'd discovered earlier. To her surprise, he reached into a drawer and pulled out a single candle, placing it carefully in the center of the cake.

"You got a candle too?" Riley asked, something catching in her throat at the thoughtfulness of the gesture.

"Can't have a birthday cake without a candle," Joe replied simply, lighting it with a match from the same drawer.

The simple act was so deliberate and sweet that Riley felt momentarily speechless. Joe set the cake on the counter between them, the candlelight illuminating his features.

"Make a wish," he said quietly.

Riley looked at him across the flickering light—at his expression, unusually soft and open—and knew exactly what she wanted. She closed her eyes briefly before blowing out the flame.

"What'd you wish for?" Joe asked, cutting them each a slice.

"Not telling," Riley replied with a smile, taking the plate he offered.

Joe watched her take the first bite, satisfaction evident in his eyes as he picked up his own fork.

Together, they leaned against the counter, eating birthday cake while Howlin' Wolf continued playing in the living room. Outside, Cincinnati waited to be explored, but for now, this quiet moment of connection—of worlds colliding and finding unexpected harmony—was all that mattered.

"So," Riley said, setting down her fork, "how about that house tour you promised me?"

Joe's eyes darkened slightly as he remembered his earlier words. "The hands-on tour?"

"That's the one," Riley confirmed, a smile playing at her lips.

Joe nodded, his gaze never leaving her face, that focused intensity making her feel like the only person in his universe. "Whatever you want."

---

Joe led Riley through his house, their fingers intertwined as they moved from room to room. The tour started casual enough—Joe pointing out the living room features she hadn't noticed the night before, explaining how he'd chosen the place, describing the backyard that swept down to the small lake visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Downstairs, the media room felt darker, cozier—oversized recliners lined up like thrones in front of a massive screen. Joe was mid-sentence, explaining how the surround sound worked, when Riley tugged him down into one of the seats, pulling him close with a mischievous grin. She climbed into his lap without hesitation, straddling him as his hands slipped beneath her shirt. They lost themselves in each other there, slow and unhurried, the dim light and heavy silence cocooning them. When it was over, they stayed tangled together for a while, catching their breath, before eventually finishing the rest of the tour—hands still linked, smiles softer, something new settling quietly between them.

The basement gym—Joe's sanctuary—became the setting for a different kind of intimacy. Riley wandered among the equipment, trailing her fingers over the weights, examining the detailed workout plans pinned to a corkboard.

"So this is where the magic happens," she teased, but her voice held genuine interest as she studied the space where Joe spent so many hours.

"Just work," Joe replied, leaning against the doorframe, watching her explore his domain.

Riley caught something in his tone—not defensiveness, but a quiet pride. This space, more than any other in the house, reflected the discipline that defined him. The careful organization of weights, the clean lines of expensive equipment, the posted schedules and progression charts—all of it spoke to the methodical approach he took to his career.

She turned to face him, seeing him differently in this context. "You really love it, don't you? Not just the game—this part. The work."

Joe considered her question with that characteristic thoughtfulness. "It's the only way I know how to do it," he said finally. "Be prepared for everything. Control what I can control."

Riley nodded, understanding something fundamental about him in that moment. Where she thrived in creative chaos, found inspiration in the unexpected, Joe built his success on structure and preparation. Different approaches, both valid.

As they made their way back upstairs, the tour continuing, the contrast between their worlds became not an obstacle but a fascinating exploration—each room revealing more about Joe, each touch between them deepening their connection, each moment together bridging the space between order and chaos.

By the time they circled back to the main floor, Riley's energy was noticeably waning. The adrenaline that had carried her through their enthusiastic reunion was giving way to the reality of her transcontinental journey. Joe noticed immediately—the slight slowing of her movements, the way her sentences trailed off, the brief moments where her eyes would unfocus.

"You need to rest," he said, not a question but an observation, his hand finding the small of her back as they entered the kitchen.

Riley gave him a small, grateful smile. "Maybe. But I don't want to waste our time sleeping."

Joe opened the refrigerator, retrieving two bottles of water. "You crossing multiple time zones to be here isn't wasting time," he pointed out, handing her one. "It's just part of it."

She accepted the water, their fingers brushing. "Listen to you being all reasonable."

“One of us has to be,” he replied, that half-smile making her heart skip.

Riley took a long drink, then set the bottle on the counter. “Maybe a movie? Something we can watch together that doesn’t require me to be fully functional?”

Joe nodded, leading her to the living room where the massive TV dominated one wall. “I can work with that.”

The simple domesticity of the moment struck Riley as she curled into the corner of his oversized sectional, legs tucked beneath her, still wearing just his t-shirt and a pair of leggings she'd finally unpacked from her suitcase. Joe moved around the space with practiced efficiency, dimming lights, adjusting the sound system, finding the remote.

He settled beside her, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him but not crowding her space. "What are you in the mood for?"

"Something I don't have to think about," Riley admitted. "I can't promise I'll stay awake for anything with an actual plot."

Joe scrolled through the options, finally settling on an action movie they’d both seen before—something familiar that didn’t demand full attention. As the opening credits began, Riley shifted closer, tucking herself against his side with her head resting on his shoulder. His arm came around her automatically, like it was second nature—like they’d been sitting like this for years instead of just a handful of days.

The steady rhythm of Joe's breathing and the familiar dialogue of the movie created a cocoon of comfort. Riley found herself drifting in and out of consciousness, catching fragments of the plot between moments of sleep. Each time she startled awake, Joe's hand would stroke her arm gently, anchoring her.

“Sorry,” she murmured after the third time, blinking sleepily up at him. “I’m terrible company right now.”

Joe pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head. “You’re exactly where you should be,” he replied, his voice a low, comforting rumble that she felt more than heard.

Something about those words settled deep inside her, giving her permission to just exist—no pressure, no expectation. Relaxing fully against him, she let her eyes close, trusting him to hold her there as sleep finally pulled her under.

The next time she opened her eyes, the movie was over, the screen displaying menu options, and Joe was looking down at her with an expression she couldn’t quite decipher—tender but intense, like he was committing something to memory. His fingers traced slow, absent circles on her shoulder, and she could feel his heartbeat steady beneath her cheek.

“What?” she asked, her voice scratchy with sleep.

Joe hesitated, his mouth curving into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nothing,” he said, then reconsidered. “Everything. Just… this.”

Riley understood. This quiet moment, unremarkable by any external measure, felt significant in ways neither of them could articulate. Joe Burrow, a man whose life was measured in achievements and statistics, was finding value in stillness. Riley Carter, who thrived on movement and expression, was learning the beauty of pause.

"Hungry?" Joe asked, breaking the spell of the moment.

Riley smiled, her hand resting lightly on his chest. “Yeah. But not enough to move.”

"Good thing a chef stocks my fridge," Joe replied, his fingers still tracing lazy patterns on her arm. "Pick your protein and we'll go from there."

"Hmm," Riley murmured, eyes still half-closed. "What are my options?"

"Chicken, salmon, steak," Joe listed off. "All prepped, portioned, and ready to heat. I can throw something together."

Riley tilted her head up to look at him. "Meal prep, huh? That's very... quarterback of you."

"Efficient," Joe corrected with a slight smile. "I save my cooking experiments for special occasions."

"Like pasta in New York," Riley remembered.

"Exactly. But right now, we've got professional-grade fuel waiting to be heated."

"In that case," Riley said, finally sitting up, "I'll take the salmon. And I promise to be impressed by your microwave skills."

Joe stood, offering his hand to pull her up. "You laugh, but there's an art to properly reheating chef-prepared meals."

"Is there now?" Riley took his hand, allowing him to lift her to her feet, her body gravitating naturally toward his.

"Timing. Temperature. Presentation," Joe said with mock seriousness as they headed toward the kitchen. "It's basically cooking."

"Whatever you need to tell yourself, Burrow," Riley teased, bumping her shoulder against his arm.

They ate at the kitchen island, perched on the sleek barstools that Riley had noticed earlier. Despite Joe's claims about "the art of reheating," he'd simply transferred the chef-prepared meals to actual plates, though he did add a sprig of fresh herbs from a small container in the refrigerator.

"Very impressive plating," Riley teased, cutting into the perfectly cooked salmon. "The garnish really elevates it."

Joe shrugged, but there was amusement in his eyes. "Presentation matters."

The food was surprisingly good—simple but well-prepared, the kind of clean, nutrient-dense meal that fueled a professional athlete without sacrificing flavor. Riley found herself hungrier than she'd expected, the combination of jet lag and their earlier activities having depleted her energy reserves.

"So," Joe said after they'd eaten in comfortable silence for a few minutes, "how weird is it being here? Scale of one to ten."

Riley considered this, twirling her fork between her fingers. "In your house specifically, or Cincinnati generally?"

"Both. Either."

"Your house... maybe a six?" she decided. "It's definitely not what I'm used to. Everything is so..."

"Clean?" Joe supplied.

"I was going to say empty," Riley corrected. "Like you moved in but never quite finished unpacking."

The simple honesty of his response caught Riley off guard. Joe wasn't prone to flowery declarations or exaggerated compliments. When he said something, he meant it exactly as stated. The implication that she had affected his perspective on his carefully constructed world carried weight.

"I'm honored that my chaos has been granted entry," she said, deflecting slightly to ease the sudden intensity.

Joe accepted the shift in tone. "Your chaos is welcome anytime."

Riley smiled, pushing her empty plate away. "Careful what you wish for, Burrow."

Joe stood, collecting their plates and carrying them to the sink. Riley watched him rinse them methodically before placing them in the dishwasher at precise angles. Even in this mundane task, his movements were deliberate, economical.

“You really move like someone who’s always thinking two steps ahead,” she said, almost to herself.

Joe glanced over his shoulder. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Not bad,” Riley said. “Just… different. It’s like everything you do has a reason. Nothing wasted.”

Joe turned to face her, leaning against the counter. “I guess I’ve always been like that. Especially once football got serious.”

She nodded, thoughtful. “It’s fascinating. Like watching someone exist in real time, but on purpose.”

Joe gave a quiet laugh at that, something soft settling in his expression. “You make it sound poetic.”

“You kind of are,” Riley said, her tone warm. “Just… in a really quiet, deliberate way. Like you don’t waste energy on things that don’t matter.”

He leaned back slightly, eyes flicking away like he was thinking. “I think for a long time, I’ve just done what works. Kept things simple. Structured. Predictable.”

A pause passed between them. Riley didn’t push—just waited.Joe looked back at her. “Safe, I guess. That’s what it’s been. And then you show up, and none of it feels… safe anymore. But it feels real.”

Riley slid off the barstool, moving toward him. “Real’s better than safe.”

Riley stopped in front of him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body but not touching. "That's a good thing, right?"

"Yeah," Joe said, his voice dropping lower. "It's good. Different, but good."

"Different can be good," Riley agreed, finally reaching out to place her hands on his chest, feeling his heartbeat strong and steady beneath her palm.

Joe's hands found her waist, his thumbs tracing small circles through the fabric of her borrowed shirt. "I like seeing you in my clothes," he said, his voice lower. "Makes me feel possessive in a way I've never felt before. It's... new."

Riley smiled, sliding her hands up to his shoulders. "Just the clothes? Because I was planning on making myself at home in every room of this house."

Joe's grip tightened marginally on her waist. "That can be arranged."

The tension between them shifted, the easy conversation giving way to something more electric. Riley was acutely aware of every point of contact between them, of the steady rhythm of Joe's breathing, of how his eyes never left hers.

"What do you normally do after dinner?" she asked, her voice softer now. "In your very structured life?"

"Film study," Joe replied honestly. "Or reading. Sometimes both."

"Exciting," Riley teased gently.

"Functional," Joe corrected, but there was no defensiveness in his tone. "But tonight... I was thinking you could walk me through that record player Sarah bought. Give me an education on the vinyl collection."

Riley's face brightened. "Now you're speaking my language, Burrow."

Joe led her to the living room, their fingers intertwined. The stack of records waited beside the new turntable, still pristine in its setup. Riley approached it with reverence, running her fingers over the carefully curated collection.

"So, where do we start?" Joe asked, watching her assess the options.

Riley pulled out an album—vintage soul that she'd mentioned loving during one of their late-night calls. "Basic music appreciation 101," she said, carefully removing the vinyl from its sleeve. "First, we establish your baseline knowledge."

Joe settled on the couch, content to watch as Riley placed the record on the turntable with practiced ease. As the opening notes filled the room, Riley moved to join him, curling against his side in what was already becoming their natural position.

"What am I listening for?" Joe asked, his arm wrapping around her shoulders.

"Not for," Riley corrected. "With. Just... feel it first. Analysis comes later."

Joe nodded, his body gradually relaxing as the music continued. They sat in comfortable silence through the first track, Riley occasionally glancing up to gauge his reaction, Joe listening with the same focused intensity he applied to everything.

As the second song began, Riley shifted to look at him properly. "Verdict?"

"It's good," Joe said simply. "Warmer than digital. More... present."

Riley smiled, pleased with his assessment. "Exactly. There's a depth you don't get from streaming. A texture."

"Is this what drew you to vinyl?" Joe asked, genuinely curious. "The sound quality?"

Riley considered this, her fingers absently tracing patterns on his chest. "Partly. But it's also the ritual of it. The intentionality. Having to choose an album and commit to it. Having to flip it over halfway through. It forces you to be present with the music."

"Intentionality," Joe repeated, a smile tugging at his lips. "There's something to that."

"What?"

"Being deliberate about what matters," Joe explained. "I do it with training and game prep. You do it with music."

"I guess we're both intense about our passions," Riley agreed, surprised by the parallel. "Never thought of it like that before."

"We're not so different after all," Joe said softly, his fingers playing with the ends of her hair.

"Just different areas of focus," Riley murmured, settling back against him as the music swelled.

They stayed like that through the remainder of the side, conversation flowing easily between tracks. Riley sharing stories about the first time she'd heard certain songs, Joe asking questions that revealed his genuine interest not just in the music but in what it meant to her.

When the record ended, Riley made no move to get up and flip it. The silence felt comfortable, weighted with a growing understanding between them.

"Thank you," Joe said suddenly.

Riley tilted her head to look at him. "For what?"

"For coming here," he said. "For bringing... this into my house."

The simplicity of his gratitude touched something deep in Riley. Joe wasn't talking about the physical presence of the records or even her companionship. He was acknowledging how she'd shifted something fundamental in his space, in his carefully constructed world.

"Thank you for making space for it," she replied, reaching up to touch his face, her thumb brushing along his jaw.

Joe turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss to her palm. The gesture was tender, unhurried—different from their earlier urgency. His eyes held hers, asking a question without words.

Riley answered by leaning up to press her lips to his, a kiss that started gentle but deepened as Joe's hand came up to cradle the back of her neck. There was no rush to it, no desperate need to make up for lost time. Just a slow, deliberate exploration, as if they were memorizing each other.

When they finally broke apart, Riley rested her forehead against his, eyes closed, breathing synchronized. Outside, the last remnants of daylight had faded, the room now illuminated only by the soft lamps Joe had turned on earlier.

"We should put on another record," she said, her voice a little husky.

Joe watched as she stood and padded barefoot across the room to the turntable, admiring how completely at home she looked in his space, wearing nothing but his t-shirt.

She bent over the record collection, fingers trailing over album spines with familiar ease. She paused at one, pulling it out with a small sound of satisfaction. The lamplight caught the edge of the vinyl as she placed it on the turntable, dropping the needle with the care of someone who'd performed this ritual thousands of times before.

The room filled with sound—low, throbbing, sensual. A steady pulse threaded through velvet layers of bass and synth, slow and deliberate, like the music was breathing. It wrapped around them like smoke, thick with tension and intimacy, every note dragging just enough to make the air feel heavier. It didn’t ask for attention—it seduced it.

Riley turned to face him, her expression transformed. There was something hypnotic in the way she began to move, her body swaying with subtle confidence to the rhythm. She made her way back to him, each step deliberate, her eyes never leaving his.

"Next part of your music education," she said, standing between his knees, "is learning all the other ways you can feel the music."

Joe reached for her, but she caught his hands, placing them at his sides with a shake of her head. "Not yet. Just watch."

His eyes darkened as she moved to the beat, her body telling a story with each shift and sway. It was nothing like her stage performances—this was private, unfiltered, meant only for him. The t-shirt she wore rose and fell with her movements, revealing glimpses of skin that made his breath catch.

“Music isn’t just sound,” she said, her voice low, syncopated to the rhythm pulsing through the room. “It’s a physical thing. It moves through you.”

Joe watched, transfixed, as she demonstrated exactly what she meant. Her hips swayed in perfect synchronicity with the bass line, her shoulders rolling with each smoky guitar riff. He'd seen athletes with perfect body control before, had that kind of precision himself on the field, but this was different—this was someone becoming the music itself.

The singer hit a low, raw note that vibrated through the room. Riley moved forward and straddled him in one fluid motion, settling on his lap with her thighs bracketing his.

She took his hands in hers, placed them on her hips where the t-shirt had ridden up. His fingers found warm skin.

"Here," she said simply, guiding his hands.

Joe's breath caught as she rolled her hips against him, the movement perfectly synchronized with the bass line pulsing through the room. The friction between them sent heat spreading through his body.

His hands tightened on her hips, feeling the subtle shift of muscle beneath skin as she moved. He'd always approached things with precision, analysis – football, training, even sex. But this was different. Immersive.

"Stop thinking," Riley murmured, noticing the familiar focus in his eyes. She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. "Just feel."

So he did. He let go. Let her lead. He surrendered, letting the rhythm take over. His hands moved up her sides, dragging the t-shirt higher. The music flowed through them, connecting them in a way he couldn't have articulated.

When they kissed, it wasn't calculated or measured like so many things in his life. It was instinct, raw and unfiltered. He felt her smile against his mouth.

"More," was all he said when they broke apart.

Riley's response was to reach down and pull his shirt off, tossing it aside. Her palms spread flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat picking up tempo to match the drums.

"Close your eyes," she said, and he did – relinquishing control in a way that would have been unthinkable weeks ago.

He did—relinquishing control in a way that would have felt unthinkable only weeks ago.

With his eyes closed, everything intensified. The bass vibrated through the couch into his bones. The guitar seemed to curl around them both.

Riley's mouth found the sensitive spot below his ear, her breath warm against his skin. She moved with the drum pattern, hips rolling in a perfect rhythm against his. His hands instinctively tightened on her waist.

She reached between them, unbuttoning his jeans with deft fingers.

"Lift up," she instructed, and he raised his hips to help her slide his jeans and boxers down just enough.

Her body was warm against his, skin against skin as she pulled the t-shirt over her head. Though his eyes remained closed, his hands mapped her – the curve of her waist, the smoothness of her back, the places where her breathing changed when he touched her.

The song shifted into a bridge, tempo changing. Riley moved with it, lifting slightly before sinking down onto him in one fluid motion that pulled gasps from them both. The sensation was overwhelming – her heat around him, the vibration of the bass through the floor, the guitar notes seeming to dance across his skin.

He felt rather than heard her inhale sharply, felt the slight tremor in her thighs against his.

"Feel that?" Her voice was barely audible over the music, but he felt the words against his throat.

"Yes," he answered, the word more breath than sound.

The music flowed through them both, dictating the pace, connecting them in ways he'd never experienced before. This wasn’t just sex—it was communion. Wordless conversation. He followed her, then guided her, their movements finding a shared language beyond anything he’d known.

As the song climbed toward its peak, so did they. Joe opened his eyes—needed to see her. And there she was: flushed, golden in the lamplight, moving with a sensual grace that felt elemental.

Her eyes locked onto his as the final swell of the song crested. The moment shattered through them both.

The track faded into silence as Riley collapsed against him, her forehead pressed to his shoulder, breath hot against his skin. They stayed like that, connected, as the needle found the brief silence between songs. Their heartbeats gradually slowed to match the new, gentler rhythm that began to fill the room.

After a moment, Riley lifted her head. The look in her eyes was equal parts satisfaction and something deeper, something that felt dangerous and necessary all at once.

Joe traced a hand down her spine, something reverent in the gesture. “I get it now,” he said softly.

A smile tugged at her mouth. "You sure? This album has like eight more tracks."

He answered by pulling her closer as the next song began.

By the time the album reached its final track, they had explored each other thoroughly on the couch, finding new rhythms with each song, discovering how different melodies called for different touches, different tempos. The record played its final notes before the gentle hiss of the needle in the empty grooves filled the room.

They lay tangled together on the couch, Riley draped across Joe's chest, a throw blanket haphazardly pulled over them. Joe's fingers traced lazy patterns along her spine as their breathing synchronized.

As the needle lifted and returned to its cradle, a comfortable silence settled over them. Joe reached behind the couch, his movement careful to avoid disturbing Riley, and pulled a soft throw blanket from where it had been draped over the back. With deliberate gentleness, he spread it over them both, coccooning Riley against his chest.

"Should we head upstairs?" he murmured against her hair, his voice low and rough with approaching sleep.

Riley nestled closer, her body heavy and relaxed against his. "Too comfortable to move," she whispered, her breath warm against his skin. Her fingers traced absent patterns across his chest, slowing as exhaustion from travel and their activities finally caught up with her.

Joe tightened his arms around her, one hand continuing its gentle path along her spine. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept anywhere but his bed—deliberate choices, structured routines—but somehow the thought of disturbing this moment felt wrong.

The city lights cast soft shadows through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting Riley's skin in a gentle glow. Joe watched as her breathing deepened, felt the exact moment when sleep claimed her. Her weight against him was substantial and real—evidence that she wasn't just a figment of his imagination, a fantasy constructed from late-night calls and memories of New Orleans.

As his own eyes grew heavy, Joe found himself cataloging small details—the light floral scent of her hair, the way her leg intertwined with his, how perfectly she fit in the space against his chest. His precisely ordered world had been upended in the span of a few weeks, yet never had chaos felt so right.

The disciplined part of him—the quarterback who tracked every statistical variation, who studied film until his eyes burned—understood that this wasn't logical. They barely knew each other. Their lives existed on separate trajectories. But as sleep began to claim him, that voice grew distant, drowned out by the steady rhythm of Riley's heartbeat against his own.

Just before consciousness slipped away, Joe pressed a kiss to the top of Riley's head and surrendered to sleep, his carefully constructed world giving way to something messier, warmer, and infinitely more real.

---

Riley woke to the gentle sensation of fingers brushing hair from her face. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing the living room in a warm glow. For a moment, she lay still, orienting herself—the firm chest beneath her cheek, the steady heartbeat against her ear, the throw blanket tangled around their legs.

She tilted her head to find Joe already awake, his eyes meeting hers with a softness that made her breath catch.

"Morning," she murmured, her voice still rough with sleep.

"Morning," Joe replied, his fingers tracing a lazy pattern along her shoulder.

Riley shifted against him, stretching slightly. "You could've woken me up. We didn't have to sleep out here."

"I didn't mind," Joe said simply, his gaze steady on her face. Something in his expression made her pause—a quiet intensity she was beginning to recognize as Joe working through his thoughts.

They lay in comfortable silence for a moment, neither making any move to disturb their position. Outside, birds called to each other, and somewhere in the distance, a lawnmower hummed.

“Last night…” Joe began, then paused. His eyes found hers again, steady and intent. “That was different for me. In a way I don’t really have words for.”

Riley waited, giving him space to continue. Joe wasn't someone who spoke without purpose.

"I've always approached everything from here," he tapped his temple lightly. "Even when it's not about football. Analyzing. Planning. Staying a step ahead." His voice remained steady, though something flickered in his eyes. "Last night was different. It wasn't about thinking at all."

"It felt right," Riley said softly.

"Yeah," Joe agreed, his hand finding hers, fingers intertwining. "That's what surprised me. How easy it was to just... be there. With you."

Riley squeezed his hand gently. "You've never felt that way before?"

"Not like that," Joe said. "Not where everything else just... disappeared."

There was no embarrassment in his admission, just honesty—the same straightforward approach he brought to everything. It was one of the things she'd come to appreciate most about him.

"It sounds silly when I say it out loud," he continued, a hint of a smile touching his lips. "Guy discovers how to live in the moment. Breaking news."

Riley smiled back, but her eyes remained serious. "It's not silly. It's real."

Joe's thumb traced circles on her palm, his gaze shifting to the windows, to the morning light filtering through. "When I found out you were going to Italy, I kept checking my calendar. Trying to figure out when I'd see you again."

"I noticed," Riley said, remembering the texts he'd sent while she was away.

"It bothered me more than it should have," Joe admitted. "The thought of waiting a month. Didn't make sense why it hit me that way."

Riley understood. She'd felt the same way in Italy, checking her phone more than she cared to admit, feeling his absence acutely despite the short time they'd known each other.

"Since New Orleans," Joe continued, "everything's felt... I don't know. More alive, somehow." He looked back at her, his eyes direct. "Like I've been going through the motions without realizing it."

Riley felt something in her chest tighten at the raw honesty in his voice. This was Joe Burrow—measured, deliberate, controlled—telling her she'd woken something in him.

"I know what you mean," she said quietly. "I'm always myself with everyone. It's not like I put on an act. But after Ethan..." She paused, gathering her thoughts. "I started being more careful about who I let get close. Still Riley on the outside, but keeping the important parts protected."

Joe nodded, understanding without her having to explain further. "Different approaches, same result."

"And now?" Riley asked, feeling suddenly vulnerable.

Joe's expression softened. "Now I want to try something new." He brushed his thumb across her cheek. "With you."

There was nothing dramatic in the way he said it—no grand declaration or flowery words. Just that steady certainty that was uniquely Joe. Yet something about the simple honesty of it made her heart race more than any elaborate speech could have.

"I'd like that," Riley said, her voice quiet but sure.

Joe pulled her closer, his lips finding hers in a kiss that felt different from any they'd shared before—unhurried and gentle, yet somehow more meaningful than all that had come before.

When they finally broke apart, Riley rested her forehead against his, their breaths mingling in the quiet morning air.

"So," she said after a moment, a smile playing at her lips, "what does the Joe Burrow schedule look like today?"

A slow smile spread across his face, transforming his features. "Wide open," he said, his arms tightening around her. "For you."

The implications of those words settled between them—not just about today, but about what might come next. Neither pushed nor retreated from the moment. Instead, they lay together in the growing light, two people from different worlds finding unexpected common ground.

They lingered on the couch until the growl of Riley's stomach made them both laugh. Joe finally disentangled himself, pressing a kiss to her forehead before standing.

"Breakfast," he declared, extending a hand to help her up. "Then I want to show you something."

They moved through the morning with easy domesticity—Riley borrowing Joe's clothes again, Joe making them protein-rich smoothies and avocado toast. They ate at the kitchen island, their conversation drifting between trivial topics and deeper ones, the comfort between them growing with each passing hour.

After breakfast, Joe led Riley to the garage, where his collection of vehicles waited. She followed him past the sleek Porsche they'd driven yesterday, raising an eyebrow when he stopped instead beside a more understated black Range Rover with tinted windows.

"We're taking this one?" she asked, running her fingers along the glossy exterior.

Joe nodded, unlocking it with a click of his key fob. "Lower profile," he explained, opening the passenger door for her. "I was thinking we could explore a bit without the whole city knowing about it."

Riley slid into the seat, watching as Joe circled to the driver's side. The interior was immaculate—black leather, minimal personal touches, everything in its place. So very Joe. But his words lingered in her mind. Lower profile. As if the Porsche would draw too much attention. As if they needed to avoid being seen.

Joe settled into the driver's seat, starting the engine with a quiet purr. "I thought I'd show you some of my favorite spots in the city."

"Sounds perfect," Riley said, but her eyes caught the way his gaze checked the mirrors, the careful way he looked around before backing out of the garage.

They drove out of his neighborhood, the massive houses set back from the street behind manicured lawns and security gates. Joe seemed focused on the road ahead, following the main routes toward downtown Cincinnati.

"Here," Joe said, handing her his phone after unlocking it. "You pick the music."

Riley took his phone, quickly scrolled through his library, and selected something upbeat for their drive. She set the phone in the console between them, letting the music fill the comfortable silence.

As they entered the city proper, Joe's demeanor shifted subtly. His eyes checked the mirrors more frequently, his awareness of their surroundings more pronounced.

"I'd like to still keep this—us—private. At least for now," he said suddenly, his voice casual but deliberate as they stopped at a red light.

There it was. The knot in Riley's stomach tightened slightly. She understood privacy—lived with the same invasive public attention he did. But something in his tone, in the careful way he'd chosen the Range Rover with its dark windows, triggered a deeper uncertainty.

She let the silence stretch between them, processing her reaction. It wasn't that she wanted to be photographed or generate headlines. Fame had taught her the value of guarding certain parts of her life. But there was a difference between privacy and secrecy, between discretion and hiding.

Riley glanced down at herself—the borrowed clothes, her tousled hair, the chipped nail polish on fingers that bore tattoos and calluses from guitar strings. Then she thought of the women Joe had been linked to in the past. Polished sorority girls. Sleek influencers with perfect blowouts and designer wardrobes. Women who looked like they belonged in his carefully ordered world.

She was nothing like them. Her entire existence was a chaotic counterpoint to the disciplined structure of Joe's life. A part of her wondered if that was exactly why they needed to stay "private"—because she didn't fit the image everyone expected from Joe Burrow.

"I know some places we can go where we won't be bothered," Joe said, breaking into her thoughts. His voice was casual, matter-of-fact, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps for him, it was.

Riley nodded, not trusting herself to speak just yet. She was overreacting, wasn't she? They'd known each other for what—a month? Of course he'd want some privacy while they figured things out. It wasn't about her specifically; it was about protecting something new and fragile from external pressure.

“There’s a spot just outside town I want to take you,” Joe said, glancing over at her. “Kind of a hole-in-the-wall, but they make the best burger I’ve ever had.”

Riley raised an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth twitching. “That so?”

“You’ll see,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “It’s nothing fancy. Just real good. Quiet.”

As they drove, Riley's mind kept circling back to the contradiction of their situation. Last night had felt so open, so real—Joe letting his guard down in a way that seemed rare for him. The turntable he'd bought specifically for her. The way he'd cut his workout short yesterday just to spend more time with her. Those weren't the actions of someone ashamed or uncertain.

Yet here they were, in a vehicle chosen for its anonymity, headed to places selected for their seclusion. Private, not secret—that's what she needed to remember. There was a difference.

Wasn't there?

Joe's hand found hers across the console, his fingers intertwining with hers in a gesture that felt both intimate and grounding. "You okay?" he asked, glancing at her briefly before returning his attention to the road. "You got quiet."

Joe smiled, that genuine expression that transformed his entire face. “You’ll like it. It’s a different kind of quiet.”

---

The Range Rover smoothly navigated the Cincinnati streets, Joe at the wheel with the easy confidence of someone who knew every turn by heart. Instead of heading toward downtown, he took them across the Taylor-Southgate Bridge into Kentucky.

"I thought we were seeing Cincinnati," Riley teased, watching the Ohio River pass beneath them.

Joe's mouth quirked into that half-smile she was growing to love. "Sometimes the best view of Cincinnati is from somewhere else."

As they crossed into Kentucky, the urban landscape gave way to less developed areas. Joe seemed to relax more with each mile they put between themselves and downtown, his shoulders loosening, his grip on the steering wheel becoming less precise.

"I come this way sometimes when I need to clear my head," he explained, taking an exit that led away from the main highway onto quieter roads. "Just drive with no particular destination."

Riley watched the scenery shift around them – small towns, patches of forest still bare from winter, occasional farmland coming to life with early spring. The music played softly between them, a playlist she'd selected from his phone that somehow managed to bridge their musical tastes.

"I love this," she said, rolling down her window slightly to let the fresh air in. "Reminds me of the backroads around my grandfather's fishing camp in Louisiana. I go there whenever I need to disconnect."

Joe glanced at her with interest. "You get out to the countryside a lot?"

"Whenever I can," Riley admitted. "In New Orleans, I know all the back routes. Even in LA, I've found some incredible drives up in the canyons where you can escape the chaos. Something about being on the road, windows down... it's freedom."

Joe nodded, understanding in his eyes. "That's exactly it."

They drove in comfortable silence for a while, Riley content to watch the passing landscape, to observe Joe in his element – focused but relaxed, navigating without needing GPS, making occasional turns that seemed intuitive rather than planned.

Eventually, they pulled into a small riverside town, the main street lined with brick buildings that spoke of the area's history. Joe parked in front of a small restaurant with a weathered wooden sign and windows that looked out onto the water.

He killed the engine. “You’re gonna like it. I promise.”

Inside, the restaurant was warm and inviting – worn wooden floors, mismatched tables and chairs, local artwork hanging on exposed brick walls. A few patrons sat eating late lunches, none giving Joe and Riley more than a passing glance as they found a table by the window.

They ordered burgers and local beer, their conversation flowing easily between childhood memories, music discoveries, and ridiculous tour stories Riley shared that had Joe laughing more freely than she'd seen before. Here, away from the pressures of their public personas, they were just two people getting to know each other, finding unexpected connections in their different worlds.

As their plates were cleared away, Riley found herself staring out at the river, suddenly aware of how little time they had left together. She was leaving tomorrow, back to LA for studio sessions, back to her world while Joe remained in his.

"What are you thinking about?" Joe asked, noticing her distant gaze.

Riley turned back to him, debating whether to voice what had been circling in her mind. "Tomorrow," she admitted finally. "Leaving."

Joe reached across the table, his fingers brushing against hers. "Let's not think about that right now."

Riley smiled, but the shadow lingered. "Hard not to."

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their impending separation settling between them. Riley took a deep breath, deciding to broach the subject that had been simmering since their earlier conversation in the car.

"About what you said before, about keeping us private..."

Joe tensed slightly, almost imperceptibly, but Riley had come to recognize the subtle shifts in his posture. "What about it?"

"I understand it," she said carefully. "I do. After Ethan... well, having everything so public added pressure we didn't need." She paused, gathering her thoughts. "But my career is different from yours. It's built on people feeling like they know me, like there's an authenticity to who I am and what I share."

Joe's expression remained open, listening, though she noticed a slight tightening around his eyes.

"I'm not saying we need to do some big announcement or anything," Riley continued. "I don't want what happened with Ethan and me, where our relationship became this public spectacle. But eventually, I'd like there to be a middle ground."

"What does middle ground look like to you?" Joe asked, his tone careful, measured.

Riley shrugged, trying to keep it casual despite the importance of the conversation. "Not hiding if we're seen together. Not structuring our entire relationship around avoiding public attention. Just... living our lives, acknowledging what we are to each other when it naturally comes up."

Joe was quiet for a moment, his eyes dropping to their joined hands. When he looked up, she could see he was choosing his words deliberately.

"I hear you," he said finally. "But I'm not there yet, Riley. My privacy isn't just a preference—it's how I've survived in this league, how I've kept parts of myself separate from the quarterback everyone thinks they know."

Riley nodded, feeling a twinge of disappointment but appreciating his honesty.

"I'm not saying never," Joe added, seeing her expression. "Just... not now. Not when we're still figuring out what this is. Can you be okay with that for now?"

There was a vulnerability in the question that caught Riley off guard. Joe Burrow, always so certain, was asking rather than telling.

"I can," she said softly. "I'm not rushing anything. I just wanted you to know where I stand."

Relief flickered across Joe's features. "Thank you. For being direct about it."

"Well, you're rubbing off on me," Riley teased, lightening the moment. "All this straightforward communication."

Joe's smile returned, though not quite reaching his eyes. "For what it's worth, it matters to me—that you understand. That you're willing to give this time."

They lingered over dessert, neither wanting to rush back to Cincinnati, both acutely aware of the limited hours they had left together. When they finally left the restaurant, the day was waning, the light turning golden as they walked back to the Range Rover.

"Thank you for bringing me here," Riley said as Joe opened her door. "For sharing your escape route."

Joe paused, his hand still on the door. "I've never brought anyone else here," he admitted quietly.

The significance of that statement settled between them – not just words, but another piece of evidence that whatever was growing between them mattered to him, enough to share parts of himself he usually kept separate and private.

The drive back to Cincinnati was peaceful, both of them content to let the music fill the comfortable silence between them. As they crossed back into Ohio, Joe took an unexpected turn off the main highway.

"Where are we going?" Riley asked, glancing over at him.

"Thought we could stop at this nature preserve before heading back," Joe replied. "There's a short trail with a decent view. Unless you're too tired?"

Riley smiled, touched by his reluctance to end their day together. "A hike sounds perfect."

The preserve was quiet at this hour, most visitors already gone for the day. They followed a winding path through the trees, their shoulders occasionally brushing as they walked side by side. The trail wasn't challenging—just enough elevation to feel like they'd earned the view when they reached the clearing at the top.

Cincinnati sprawled before them, the late afternoon sun gilding the buildings and the river beyond. They stood for a while, taking in the vista, neither feeling the need to fill the silence with words.

"Thanks for bringing me here," Riley said finally, leaning slightly against Joe's solid frame.

Joe's arm came around her shoulders, drawing her closer. "Wanted to show you a different side of the city."

They lingered until the sun began its final descent, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. As they made their way back down the trail, Riley found herself mentally cataloging these moments—storing them away like photographs to revisit when they were apart again.

"You want to head home?" Joe asked as they reached his Range Rover. "Open a bottle of wine, just hang out?"

The casual suggestion carried weight in its simplicity—no elaborate plans, just the two of them enjoying each other's company in the hours they had left.

"Sounds perfect," Riley agreed.

---

Back at Joe’s house, Riley headed straight for the record collection while Joe opened a bottle of wine. She selected something different from last night—not the dark, hypnotic pulse they’d melted into, but something warmer. Softer. Music that invited closeness without urgency.

When Joe walked back in with two glasses, he paused, leaning against the doorway to watch her. Riley caught his eye and gave him a playful smile. “You just gonna stand there and watch?”

He raised an eyebrow, smirk tugging at his lips. “I don’t usually dance,” he admitted, but his tone wasn’t resistant—more like he was giving her fair warning.

“Good thing I do,” Riley shot back, holding out her hand to him. “C’mon.”

Joe set the glasses down on the coffee table, hesitating for just a second before stepping forward. As soon as he took her hand, Riley pulled him in, guiding his hands to her waist. At first, he just followed her lead—letting her sway against him—but it didn’t take long for his natural athleticism to kick in.

Once he felt the rhythm, he started to move on instinct, taking control of their pace. His hands stayed steady on her waist, guiding her effortlessly as he adjusted to the beat. It was almost unfair how easily he picked it up—like his body just knew how to respond. He spun her unexpectedly, pulling her back to his chest in one smooth motion, and she couldn’t help but laugh, caught off guard by how effortlessly he took over.

“What was that?” she teased, turning to look up at him.

Joe’s lips curved into a half-smile, his hands still anchored on her waist. “It’s not that different from footwork drills. Just gotta feel it out,” he said, but there was a hint of pride in his tone, like he knew exactly how good he was at it.

Riley shook her head, letting herself lean into him as he moved with more confidence now, guiding her in a slow, effortless rhythm. “You’re a natural,” she said, half impressed, half charmed.

Joe just shrugged.

She smiled, rolling her eyes, but didn’t bother trying to take the lead back—mostly because he was doing a damn good job of it. He kept her close, guiding her through a lazy turn before pulling her back against him, and she couldn’t help but lean into the steadiness of his frame, enjoying the way he seemed so completely in control.

By the time the song ended, they were both a little breathless—more from being close than from the dancing itself. Joe grabbed the glasses from the table and handed her one, their fingers brushing.

“Not bad for a guy who ‘doesn’t usually dance,’” Riley said, taking a sip.

Joe just smirked. “Guess I needed the right partner.”

They settled on his couch, Riley curled against his side, contentment settling over them like a warm blanket. The conversation flowed easily between them, jumping from topic to topic without effort—stories from Riley's tours, Joe's college days, childhood memories, future dreams.

As night deepened around the house, they eventually made their way upstairs, their touches becoming more purposeful, their kisses more lingering. There was a sweet urgency to their connection this time—awareness of tomorrow's separation lending weight to each moment together.

Later, as they lay entwined in his sheets, the house quiet around them, Riley traced idle patterns on Joe's chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear.

"Your flight's at eight, right?" Joe asked, his voice rumbling under her cheek.

"Yeah," Riley murmured, her arms tightening around him involuntarily.

Joe's hand stilled on her back, then resumed its gentle path along her spine. "We're going to figure this out, Riley," he said, certainty in his voice. "The distance, the schedules, all of it."

Riley lifted her head to look at him, finding his eyes steady on hers in the dim light of his bedroom. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Joe replied without hesitation. "This matters. We'll make it work."

In the simple conviction of his words, Riley found the reassurance she needed. Joe Burrow didn't make promises lightly. When he said they'd figure it out, it wasn't empty comfort—it was a commitment.

She settled back against his chest, a small smile playing on her lips. Tomorrow would come with its inevitable goodbye, but it wasn't an ending. Just a pause in something that was only beginning to take shape between them—something worth the effort, worth navigating the complications of their different worlds.

---

Morning came too quickly, the early sun filtering through the blinds of Joe's bedroom. They moved through a routine that felt both new and strangely established—shower, coffee, last-minute packing of Riley's scattered belongings. The conversation stayed light, deliberately skimming the surface to avoid the reality of her imminent departure. Neither of them wanted to touch the weight pressing down on the morning.

Joe loaded Riley's suitcase into the Range Rover while she took one last look around his house, already missing the space that had briefly become a part of her world. Her fingers trailed over the turntable he'd bought for her, a tangible symbol of the unexpected connection they'd built in such a short time. She traced the edge of the vinyl that still sat on the player, the album from last night—a reminder of how they'd felt the music together, like they were tuned to the same frequency.

The drive to the private airfield was quiet, Riley's hand resting on Joe's thigh, his thumb occasionally brushing over her knuckles at stoplights. Cincinnati was still waking up around them, the early morning streets largely empty, giving them one last pocket of privacy before reality stepped in.

When they reached the airfield, Joe drove directly onto the tarmac, where the sleek private jet was already prepped for departure. He parked near the stairs and cut the engine, and for a moment, they just sat there—neither one making a move to break the fragile silence.

"So," Riley said finally, forcing a smile. "This is where I say something profound and memorable, right? Should I quote Shakespeare or go with a Taylor Swift lyric?"

Joe gave her that half-smile that always made her heart skip. “Or you could just say you’ll call me later,” he said, voice quiet. His hand tightened slightly on hers, like he wasn’t quite ready for her to get out of the car yet.

She took a breath, her voice dropping the humor. "I'm really bad at goodbyes."

Joe turned toward her, his gaze steady and direct. "It's not a goodbye," he said, with the same quiet certainty he used when calling a play. "Just a see you later."

The words should have made it easier, but they didn't. Riley nodded, but to her embarrassment, her throat tightened and her eyes grew wet. She glanced away, wiping quickly at her cheeks. "God, ignore me. I cry at literally everything. Commercials, cute dogs, when I'm hungry. It's annoying."

Joe didn't laugh or brush it off. Instead, he just leaned over and brushed his thumb across her cheek, catching a stray tear before it could fall. "Hey," he said softly. "You don't have to pretend it doesn't suck."

Riley managed a wobbly smile. "I just hate leaving like this. We just figured out how to be in the same place without driving each other crazy, and now I have to go."

Joe was quiet for a second, like he was weighing his words carefully. Then he just looked her right in the eyes, his tone steady. "I've never done this before," he admitted. "Not like this. I keep things separate. Football, personal life, all of it. But with you..." He paused, choosing his words with precision. "It doesn't matter how complicated it is. We'll figure it out."

Riley swallowed hard, her chest tightening. "You sure? I'm bringing chaos to your very structured world, Burrow."

Joe gave her that look—the one that was so direct it almost made her nervous. "Good," he said simply. "I want that."

She exhaled slowly, the honesty in his eyes hitting her harder than any flowery declaration. Riley leaned in, her hand slipping to the back of his neck as she kissed him—a kiss that held everything she couldn't quite say. When they pulled back, her forehead rested against his for a moment.

Finally, Riley forced herself to pull away, the reality of the waiting jet breaking the moment. "Get used to the crying, by the way," she said, attempting to lighten the mood. "It comes standard with the package."

"I like the package," Joe replied, his voice low and certain.

Joe got out and retrieved her suitcase from the back, then walked with her to the foot of the stairs. The cool morning air whipped around them, but Joe seemed unbothered, standing tall and steady as always.

She turned back to him, hesitating on the first step. “I don’t want this to be one of those things that fades out when we go back to real life.”

Joe’s eyes softened. “It won’t be,” he promised, no unnecessary words, just certainty. “This isn’t it for us.”

One last kiss, brief but carrying a promise of more, and then Riley forced herself to move up the steps, pausing at the top to look back. Joe was still there, hands in his pockets, that steady, unmovable presence that had become so familiar. He didn't wave or make some grand gesture—that wasn't Joe—but he didn't move either, just stood there, grounded and waiting until the very last moment.

Once inside, Riley sank into the plush leather seat, glancing back out the window to see him still rooted in place, watching the plane prepare for takeoff. As the engines rumbled to life and the jet taxied toward the runway, she couldn't help but feel like she was leaving a piece of herself behind with him.

Closing her eyes, Riley leaned back and let herself feel the ache of missing him already. But beneath it was something else—something that felt less like loss and more like potential. She didn't know how, but she knew they'd find their way through this. Whatever had sparked between them wasn't something that could be easily extinguished.

Different worlds, maybe. But somehow, in ways that defied logic, they'd found a way to orbit each other. And if there was one thing she knew about Joe Burrow, it was that once he set his mind on something, he didn't quit.

She just had to trust that this—whatever it was becoming—was one of those things.

[letstalkaboutfandomsbaby]

oh my god i am at work fucking REELING over this knight smut, like kicking my feet and thinkin bout lore and how maybe he usually corners her in the kitchen alone because he just finished his grueling training and sees his princess in the glow of the evening light, humming and swaying while she works - gives him some of the bread she made that day and ,, and and - you cannot blame the man for taking her right on that mf counter,, i’m in shambles

GRAAAAAA BARK BARK BARK MY KNIGHT MY SWEET KNIGHT

You are where he expects you to be after training: in the kitchen, prepping the last of dinner being sent out. He watches from the doorway as the golden light from the window catches your cheekbone, your hair shining, peeking under your cap.

"Oh! Take this, the princess loves this with her venison." You wave off the servant, rushing out a 'go, go, go'. When she leaves, you sigh, leaning against the wooden counter. The floor creaks when he steps forward and you jump, turning to him, a hand flying to your chest. You groan.

"You must speak before you approach a woman alone. You scared the daylights out of me."

"I am sorry, my love. It was not my intention to frighten you."

You sigh, leaning back against the counter, rubbing your face.

"Tired?"

"Yes."

"Good. Means you worked hard today."

You scoff, smiling at him.

"I work hard every day."

"You do, my love, you do."

You grab a cloth and wipe your face.

"Why aren't you eating with the rest of the soldiers?"

"I wanted to come see you first." You hum, giving him a knowing look.

"You wanted to come eat the scraps that wouldn't go on the royals' plates."

"Not exactly," he says. You hum again, giggling.

"I guess I can feed you something they won't miss. Oh! We just got a new spice in." You rush to the counter, grabbing a loaf of bread and a knife. "It's really good with butter and honey on bread. Please, you must try it."

He does not object. He merely watches as you scurry around the kitchen, grabbing the butter and honey, as well as a jar with an unknown spice. You take a thick slice of bread and a hefty pad of butter, spreading it over the bread. You set it down, taking the handle of the dipper and drizzling honey over the butter. You then take a pinch of spice and distribute it over the bread, smiling as you grab it delicately and hand it to him. He takes it gingerly, smelling it before taking a bite.

"Oh... by God—"

"Isn't it divine?" you ask, your smile wide, beautiful. "I was thinking of adding it to a dessert—perhaps honey cake with frosting—and maybe adding some raisons or nuts and—mmf!"

He's kissing you, the bread discarded on the table as his hands find your waist, already pulling up your skirt. You push him away, although he's already searching for your lips again.

"What is the matter with you?!"

"I'm sorry, love," he mumbles as he corners you against the counter, lifting you up to sit on it as he bundles your skirt around your stomach, exposing you to the air. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I can't help it—I must have you."

"Have me?! Have you lost your mind? This is a kitchen, not a bedroom!"

"Please, my love, just let me feel you for a moment."

"What has gotten into you? Was that spice some sort of spell?" He chuckles, kissing over your neck as his fingers spread your cunt open.

"You're wet already. Don't tell me that you were having fun with the stable boys today."

You scoff.

"I would never. I..." You pause, licking over your lips. "I was... I thought of you today..."

His eyes meet yours, dark and hungry.

"You have no idea what you do to me, love."

Soon enough, he's pushing inside, making you breathless. His thrusts are fast, rough, a bit sloppy, as if he can't focus properly.

"This is improper," you say in a hushed whisper, stiffling your moans. "This is unbecoming of a lady."

"I can feel that you're close." he whispers back, his thumb grazing your clit. "Do you really want me to stop?"

You think before wrapping your legs around him, clawing at his exposed neck.

"Just hurry."

And he does. He fucks you so fast you have to cover your mouth to hide your squeals. He fiddles with your clit all the while, pulling you over the edge, making you cum hard and swift. He follows soon after, filling you up, his cock twitching inside you.

He helps you down and pushes down your skirt, smoothing it out. You grab a cloth, lifting your skirt to clean yourself, but he stops you.

"No." He takes the cloth away. "Please, leave it. I want my seed dripping down your legs until I see you tonight."

You shake your head.

"You're an insatiable beast." He smiles, kissing your cheek.

"That is what my sweet lady has made of me."

[disastergay]

Mug Brownie: Autism Edition☕

When you try to make a microwave brownie, does the image below look like your result?

Are you tired of ~trying to make a brownie in the microwave~ by following some recipe you found online, only for it to taste like shit because the ratio of oil/sugar/flour to brownie mix is an overpowering assault on your senses?

Or maybe you don't even bother trying because the instructions are unclear and you'd rather not risk fucking it up "just in case" using a wooden spoon instead of a plastic one might make your kitchen explode?

Maybe it's even worse - maybe you did everything right and followed the instructions perfectly, but you can't for the life of you tell if the final product came out right and don't feel like setting yourself up for an unpleasant surprise.

Well, I'm here to share with you the one tried and true microwave/mug brownie recipe that works for me.

Ingredients

Here's what you'll need:

A mug of some kind (doesn't HAVE to be a mug but needs to be mug shaped + microwave safe)

2 and 1/2 tablespoons (TBSP) of brownie mix or cocoa powder

1 and 1/2 TBSP of all purpose flour -> 1 TBSP only if you don't want to be able to taste the flour slightly (this is what people mean when they say brownies taste "cakey")

1 TBSP granulated white sugar -> add another if you want to make it more sweet than tart OR only use 1/2 TBSP if you don't want to be able to taste more sweetness than tartness

ALWAYS* mix your dry ingredients together in the mug before you add in the liquids. (*The only exception being any chocolate chips you add, those can go in at the end or the start, it has no bearing on the recipe.)

Once you've done that, add the following:

1 TBSP of canola, vegetable OR olive oil -> the more you add, the smoother and richer it will get, but the harder it will be to cook and physically eat

2 TBSP water (to be added at the very end because it needs to be mixed in quickly)

Final Prep

Stir your ingredients together for at least 15-30 seconds or long enough to completely mix the dry and wet stuff together. If you've made normal brownies before, this should look like brownie mix right before it goes in the oven.

Check the wattage of your microwave. Most of the recipes I saw accounted for a 1000 watt or less microwave and recommended microwaving for about 30 seconds at full power. However, mine is around 1200w and I get the best results from microwaving for 45 seconds at full power. If you can't figure out what wattage your microwave has, just start with 30 seconds at full blast and add on 15 second intervals from there. It might take some experimentation on your part to get the recipe perfect.

When it's fully cooked, your mug brownie should look kind of puffed up like a mini lava cake. It probably won't fill up much of your mug at all, but trust me, it'll be dense. The texture might surprise you because it's a little more mousse-like than your average crispy-topped oven brownie, but the overall taste should be pretty similar.

It will also be HOT when it first comes out, so wait at least a minute and a half for it to cool down a bit and blow on your fork/spoon before putting any of it in your mouth.

TW: Trypophobia - Every single time I successfully make this recipe, the imprint of popped air bubbles looks like a bunch of little holes clustered close together. If that's something that would bother you, don't look directly into the mug when you finish microwaving it - stick a toothpick inside to gage how goopy the brownie is instead.

Additional Tips

Drink a glass of milk milk/eat a scoop of ice cream with your brownie. This will help balance the heat of the brownie and its overpowering chocolatey taste, if that's something that's been a sensory issue for you in the past.

Chocolate chips, being heavier, tend to migrate towards the bottom of the mug, so don't be afraid to get in there and swipe around with your utensil to more evenly distribute them around the brownie.

Add whatever extra toppings you want! I'd recommend sweet things like bits of candy/chocolate though.

As someone who recently had major oral surgery and hasn't been allowed to bite down or chew any of my food for weeks, this recipe is very easy to swallow and digest. If you've just had wisdom tooth surgery or something similar, as long as you use plastic utensils and make your tongue do most of the work, you should be able to eat this with ease.

Eat slowly. Trust me when I tell you that you're underestimating just how filling this brownie will be. These have easily lasted me 2-3 meals because my sensory-specific satiety keeps burning out halfway through eating them.

Store your leftovers in the fridge. You can just leave what's left of the brownie in the mug for this part. They keep well and you can always heat them up again!

When you're 100% done with it, drizzle liquid soap in the mug and fill it up with water to let it soak before washing it. This will make it easier to get all the extra gunk out whether you wash your dishes by hand or use a dishwasher.

🦴🍎🦷